LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


MEMOIRS  OF  MISTRAL 


BOOKS  BY 
CONSTANCE  E.  MAUD 


AN  ENGLISH  GIRL  IN  PARIS 
Tenth  Thousand,  6s. 

MY  FRENCH  FRIENDS.    6s. 
THE  RISING  GENERATION.     6s. 

FELICITY  IN  FRANCE. 

Fourth  Edition,  6s. 

WAGNER'S  HEROES. 

Illustrated  by  H.  G.  FELL. 
Sixth  Impression,  55. 

WAGNER'S  HEROINES. 

Illustrated  by  W.  T.  MAUD. 
Third  Impression,  55. 


i WARD  ARNOLD    19O7. 


MEMOIRS  OF  MISTRAL 

RENDERED  INTO  ENGLISH  BY 

CONSTANCE   ELISABETH    MAUD 


Ich  singe  wie  der  Vogel  singt 
Der  in  den  Zweigen  wohnet 

Das  Lied,  das  aus  der  Kehle  dringt 
1st  Lohn,  der  reichlich  lohnet. 

GOETHE. 


LYRICS  FROM  THE  PROVENCAL  BY 

ALMA    STRETTELL 

(MRS.  LAWRENCE  HARRISON) 


ILLUSTRATED 


LONDON 
EDWARD    ARNOLD 

1907 

\_All  rights  reserved] 


TO  MY  FRIEND 

THERESE  ROUMANILLE 

(MADAME  BOISSIERE) 

I  DEDICATE  THIS  ENGLISH  RENDERING  OF  MISTRAL'S  MEMOIRS 

AND  TALES,  WHICH  WITHOUT  HER  KINDLY  ASSISTANCE 

I  SHOULD  NOT  HAVE  UNDERTAKEN,  FOR  TO  HER 

I  OWE  ALL  I  KNOW  OF  THE  LITERARY  AND 

PATRIOTIC  WORK  OF  THE  FELIBRES 

AND  OF  THE  REAL  LIFE  OF 

PROVENCE 


PREFACE 

IT  was  one  lovely  day  in  early  spring  two  years 
ago  that,  on  the  occasion  of  a  visit  to  the  great 
poet  of  Provence,  I  first  heard  of  these  Memories 
of  his  youth. 

Mistral  had  been  for  many  years  collecting  and 
editing  material  for  this  volume,  and  was  at  the 
moment  just  completing  a  French  translation 
from  the  Provengal  original,  which  he  laughingly 
assured  us  he  was  glad  we  had  interrupted,  since 
he  found  it  un  travail  brute. 

The  enthusiastic  reception  accorded  to  this 
French  edition,  not  only  in  Paris  but  throughout 
the  reading  world  of  France,  encourages  me  to 
think  that  perhaps  in  England,  also,  considering 
the  increased  interest  caused  by  the  entente  cordiale 
in  all  things  concerning  France,  an  English 
translation  of  this  unique  description  of  Provengal 
country  life  sixty  years  ago  may  be  welcome  ; 
and  in  America  too,  where  the  name  and  life-work 
of  Mistral  have  always  been  better  known  than 
in  England. 


viii  PREFACE 

The  fact  that  Mistral  and  his  great  collaborators 
in  the  Felibre  movement,  Roumanille,  Aubanel, 
Felix  Gras,  Anselme  Mathieu  and  others,  wrote 
entirely  in  the  language  of  their  beloved  Provence, 
no  doubt  accounts  for  their  works  being  so  little 
known  outside  their  own  country,  though  latterly 
the  name  of  Mistral  has  been  brought  prominently 
forward  by  his  election  as  a  recipient  last  year  of 
the  Nobel  Prize  for  patriotic  literature,  and  also 
by  his  refusal  to  accept  a  Chair  among  the  Olym- 
pians of  the  French  Academy.  In  spite  of  his 
rejection  of  the  latter  honour,  which  was  a  matter 
of  principle,  he  could  scarcely  fail  to  have  been 
gratified  by  the  compliment  paid  in  offering  to  him 
what  is  never  offered  without  being  first  solicited, 
the  would-be  member  being  obliged  to  present  him- 
self for  election  and  also  to  endeavour  personally 
to  win  the  support  of  each  of  the  sacred  Forty. 

Of  all  Mistral's  works  his  first  epic  poem, 
Mireille,  is  the  best  known  outside  France,  chiefly 
no  doubt  because  the  invincible  charm  and  beauty 
of  this  work  make  themselves  felt  even  through 
the  imperfect  medium  of  a  prose  translation,  and 
partly  perhaps  because  Gounod  gave  it  a  certain 
vogue  by  adapting  it  as  the  libretto  for  his  opera 
of  Mireille. 

President  Roosevelt  has  shown  his  appreciation 


PREFACE  ix 

not  only  of  Mireille  but  of  the  life-work  of  the 
author  in  the  following  letter,  a  French  transla- 
tion of  which  is  to  be  seen  framed  in  Mistral's 
Proven?al  Museum  at  Aries. 

WHITE  HOUSE,  WASHINGTON, 

December  15,  1904. 

MY  DEAR  M.  MISTRAL, — Mrs.  Roosevelt  and  I 
were  equally  pleased  with  the  book  and  the  medal, 
and  none  the  less  because  for  nearly  twenty  years 
we  have  possessed  a  copy  of  Mireille.  That  copy 
we  shall  keep  for  old  association's  sake ;  though 
this  new  copy  with  the  personal  inscription  by 
you  must  hereafter  occupy  the  place  of  honour. 

All  success  to  you  and  your  associates !  You 
are  teaching  the  lesson  that  none  need  more  to 
learn  than  we  of  the  West,  we  of  the  eager,  restless, 
wealth-seeking  nation;  the  lesson  that  after  a 
certain  not  very  high  level  of  material  well- 
being  has  been  reached,  then  the  things  that  really 
count  in  life  are  the  things  of  the  spirit.  Factories 
and  railways  are  good  up  to  a  certain  point ; 
but  courage  and  endurance,  love  of  wife  and 
child,  love  of  home  and  country,  love  of  lover  for 
sweetheart,  love  of  beauty  in  man's  work  and 
in  nature,  love  and  emulation  of  daring  and  of 
lofty  endeavour,  the  homely  workaday  virtues 


x  PREFACE 

and  the  heroic  virtues — these  are  better  still,  and 
if  they  are  lacking  no  piled-up  riches,  no  roaring, 
clanging  industrialism,  no  feverish  and  many- 
sided  activity  shall  avail  either  the  individual 
or  the  nation.  I  do  not  undervalue  these  things 
of  a  nation's  body  ;  I  only  desire  that  they  shall 
not  make  us  forget  that  beside  the  nation's  body 
there  is  also  the  nation's  soul. 

Again  thanking  you,  on  behalf  of  both  of  us, 
Believe  me 

Very  faithfully  yours, 

THEODORE  ROOSEVELT. 
To  M.  Frederic  Mistral. 

The  Nobel  Prize  has  been  devoted  to  the  same 
patriotic  cause  as  that  to  which  the  poet  has  in- 
variably consecrated  everything  he  possesses. 
In  this  instance  the  gift  from  Sweden  has  gone 
towards  the  purchase  of  an  ancient  palace  in 
Aries,  which  in  future  will  be  the  Felibrean  Museum, 
the  present  hired  building  being  far  too  small 
for  the  purpose.  The  object  of  the  museum  is 
to  be  for  all  times  a  record  and  storehouse  of  Pro- 
vencal history,  containing  the  weapons,  costumes, 
agricultural  implements,  furniture,  documents, 
&c.,  dating  from  the  most  ancient  times  up  to 
the  present  day. 


PREFACE 


XI 


The  Memoirs,  which  Monsieur  Mistral  defines  as 
"  Mes  Origines,"  end  with  the  publication  of 
his  Mireille  in  the  year  1859  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
eight.  He  adds  as  a  supplement  a  chapter 
written  some  three  years  later,  a  souvenir  of 
Alphonse  Daudet  (also  among  the  prophets), 
which  gives  a  picture  of  the  way  these  youthful 
poet-patriots  practised  the  Gai-Savoir  in  the 
spring-time  and  heyday  of  their  lives. 

I  have  added  also  a  short  summary  translated 
from  the  writings  of  Monsieur  Paul  Marieton, 
which  brings  the  history  of  Felibrige  and  its 
Capoulie  up  to  the  present  date. 

CONSTANCE  ELISABETH  MAUD. 
CHELSEA,  June  1907. 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PACE 

I.  CHILDHOOD  AT  MAILLANE   .....  i 

II.  MY  FATHER 24 

III.  THE  MAGI  KINGS 32 

IV.  NATURE'S  SCHOOL       .         .         .         .         .         .45 

V.  AT  ST.  MICHEL  DE  FRIGOLET  61 

VI.  AT  MONSIEUR  MILLET'S  SCHOOL  ....         80 

VII.  THREE  EARLY  FELIBRES 104 

VIII.  How  I  TOOK  MY  DEGREE  .         .         .         .         .120 

IX.  DAME  RIQUELLE  AND  THE  REPUBLIC  OF  1848      .       131 

X.  MADEMOISELLE  LOUISE        .....       147 

XI.  THE  RETURN  TO  THE  FARM         ....       165 

XII.  FONT-SEGUGNE 185 

XIII.  "THE  PROVENQAL  ALMANAC"     ....       198 

XIV,  JOURNEY  TO  LES  SAINTES-MARIES       .         .         .235 
XV.  JEAN  ROUSSI&RE 250 

XVI.  "  MIREILLE  "      .         .         .         .  .  .270 

XVII.  THE  REVELS  OF  TRINQUETAILLE  .        .  .  .       286 

APPENDIX           .         .         „         .         .  .  .       3°7 

MISTRAL'S  POEMS  IN  THE  PROVENCAL  .  .      324 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

To/ace 
page 

Fr6d6ric  Mistral 


Mas  du  Juge  —  Birthplace  of  Frederic  Mistral  18 

Mistral  in  1864  ..........  60 

Arlcsiennes  at  Maillane      ........  84 

Joseph  Roumanille      .........  106 

Anselm  Mathieu           .........  158 

Th6odore  Aubanel      .........  158 

Mas  des  Pommiers  —  Home  of  Joseph  Roumanille  .        .        .  188 

Madame  Fr6d6ric  Mistral,  First  Queen  of  the  Felibres         .  196 

Felix  Gras,  Poet  and  F61ibre      .......  203 

Mistral  and  his  dog  Pan-Perdu  .......  226 

Therese  Roumanille  (Madame  Boissiere),  Second  Queen  of 

the  Felibres  ..........  266 

Paul  Mansion,  Chancelier  des  Felibres   .....  307 

Madame   Gasquet    (nee   Mile.  Girard),  Third  Queen  of  the 

Felibres          ..........  318 

Madame  Bischoffsheim  (nee  Mile,  de  Chevigney),  Fourth  and 

present  Queen  of  the  Felibres    ......  326 


- 


MEMOIRS  OF  MISTRAL 

CHAPTER  I 

CHILDHOOD  AT  MAILLANE 
As  far  back  as  I  can  remember  I  see  before  me, 

dfc 

towards  the  south,  a  barrier  of  mountains,  whose 
slopes,  rocks  and  gorges  stand  out  in  the  distance 
with  more  or  less  clearness  according  to  the 
morning  or  evening  light.  It  is  the  chain  of  the 
Alpilles,  engirdled  with  olive-trees  like  a  wall  of 
classic  ruins,  a  veritable  belvedere  of  bygone 
glory  and  legend. 

It  was  at  the  foot  of  this  rampart  that  Caius 
Marius,  Saviour  of  Rome,  and  to  this  day  a  popular 
hero  throughout  the  land,  awaited  the  barbarian 
hordes  behind  the  walls  of  his  camp.  The  record 
of  his  triumphs  and  trophies  engraved  on  the  Arch 
and  Mausoleum  of  Saint-Remy  has  been  gilded 
by  the  sun  of  Provence  for  two  thousand  years 
past. 

On  the  slopes  of  these  hills  are  to  be  seen  the 

A 


2  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

remains  of  the  great  Roman  aqueduct,  which  once 
carried  the  waters  of  Vaucluse  to  the  Arena  of 
Aries ;  an  aqueduct  still  called  by  the  country 
people  Ouide  di  Sarrasin  (stonework  of  the 
Saracens),  for  it  was  by  this  waterway  the  Spanish 
Moors  marched  to  Aries.  On  the  jagged  rocks  of 
these  Alpilles  the  Princes  of  Baux  built  their 
stronghold,  and  in  these  same  aromatic  valleys, 
at  Baux,  Romanin,  and  Roque-Martine,  the  beauti- 
ful chatelaines  in  the  days  of  the  troubadours  held 

their  Courts  of  Love. 

• 

It  is  at  Mont-Majour,  on  the  plains  of  the 
Camargue,  that  the  old  Kings  of  Aries  sleep 
beneath  the  flag-stones  of  the  cloisters,  and  in  the 
grotto  of  the  Vallon  d'Enfer  of  Cordes  that  our 
fairies  still  wander,  while  among  these  ruins  of 
old  Roman  and  feudal  days  the  Golden  Goat  lies 
buried. 

My  native  village,  Maillane,  facing  the  Alpilles, 
holds  the  middle  of  the  plain,  a  wide  fertile  plain, 
still  called  in  Provengal,  "  Le  Caieou,"  no  doubt 
in  memory  of  the  Consul  Caius  Marius. 

An  old  worthy  of  this  district,  "  a  famous 
wrestler  known  as  the  little  Maillanais,"  once 
assured  me  that  in  all  his  travels  throughout  the 
length  and  breadth  of  Languedoc  and  Provence 
never  had  he  seen  a  plain  so  smooth  as  this  one 


CHILDHOOD   AT  MAILLANE  3 

of  ours.  For  if  one  ploughed  a  furrow  straight 
as  a  die  for  forty  miles  from  the  Durance  river 
down  to  the  sea,  the  water  would  flow  without 
hindrance  owing  to  the  steady  gradient.  And,  in 
spite  of  our  neighbours  treating  us  as  frog-eaters, 
we  Maillanais  always  agree  there  is  not  a  prettier 
country  under  the  sun  than  ours. 

The  old  homestead  where  I  was  born,  looking 
towards  the  hills  and  adjoining  the  Clos-Cre"ma, 
was  called  "  the  Judge's  Farm."  We  worked  the 
land  with  four  yoke  of  oxen,  and  kept  a  head- 
carter,  several  ploughmen,  a  shepherd,  a  dairy- 
woman  whom  we  called  "  the  Aunt,"  besides 
hired  men  and  women  engaged  by  the  month 
according  to  the  work  of  the  season,  whether  for 
the  silk-worms,  the  hay,  the  weeding,  the  harvest 
and  vintage,  the  season  of  sowing,  or  that  of 
olive  gathering. 

My  parents  were  yeomen,  and  belonged  to  those 
families  who  live  on  their  own  land  and  work  it 
from  one  generation  to  another.  The  yeomen  of 
the  country  of  Aries  form  a  class  apart,  a  sort  of 
peasant  aristocracy,  which,  like  every  other,  has 
its  pride  of  caste.  For  whilst  the  peasant  of  the 
village  cultivates  with  spade  and  hoe  his  little 
plot  of  ground,  the  yeoman  farmer,  agriculturist 
on  a  large  scale  of  the  Camargue  and  the  Crau, 


4  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

also  puts  his  hand  to  the  plough  as  he  sings  his 
morning  song. 

If  we  Mistrals  wish,  like  so  many  others,  to  boast 
of  our  descent,  without  presumption  we  may  claim 
as  ancestors  the  Mistrals  of  Dauphiny,  who 
became  by  alliance  Seigneurs  of  Mont  dragon 
and  also  of  Romanin.  The  celebrated  monument 
shown  at  Valence  is  the  tomb  of  these  Mistrals. 
And  at  Saint-Remy,  the  home  of  my  family  and 
birthplace  of  my  father,  the  Hotel  of  the  Mistrals 
of  Romanin  may  still  be  seen,  known  by  the  name 
of  the  Palace  of  Queen  Joan. 

The  crest  of  the  Mistrals  is  three  clover  leaves 
with  the  somewhat  audacious  device,  "  All  or 
Nothing."  For  those  who,  like  ourselves,  read  a 
horoscope  in  the  fatality  of  patronymics  and  the 
mystery  of  chance  encounters,  it  is  a  curious  coinci- 
dence to  find  in  the  olden  days  the  Love  Court  of 
Romanin  united  to  the  Manor  of  the  Mistrals,  and 
the  name  of  Mistral  designating  the  great  wind  of 
the  land  of  Provence,  and  lastly,  these  three  trefoils 
significantly  pointing  to  the  destiny  of  our  family. 
The  trefoil,  so  I  was  informed  by  the  Sar  Peladan, 
when  it  has  four  leaves  becomes  a  talisman,  but 
with  three  expresses  symbolically  the  idea  of  the 
indigenous  plant,  development  and  growth  by 
slow  degrees  in  the  same  spot.  The  number  three 


CHILDHOOD   AT   MAILLANE  5 

signifies  also  the  household,  father,  mother,  and 
son  in  the  mystic  sense.  Three  trefoils,  there- 
fore, stand  for  three  successive  harmonious  genera- 
tions, or  nine,  which  number  in  heraldry  represents 
wisdom.  The  device  "  All  or  Nothing  "  is  well 
suited  to  those  sedentary  flowers  which  will  not 
bear  transplanting  and  are  emblematic  of  the 
enured  landholder. 

But  to  leave  these  trifles.  My  father,  who  lost 
his  first  wife,  married  again  at  the  age  of  fifty- 
five,  and  I  was  the  offspring  of  this  second  marriage. 
It  was  in  the  following  manner  my  parents  met 
each  other  : 

One  summer's  day  on  the  Feast  of  St.  John, 
Master  Frangois  Mistral  stood  in  the  midst  of  his 
cornfields  watching  the  harvesters  as  they  mowed 
down  the  crop  with  their  sickles.  A  troop  of 
women  followed  the  labourers,  gleaning  the  ears 
of  corn  which  escaped  the  rake.  Among  them  my 
father  noticed  one,  a  handsome  girl,  who  lingered 
shyly  behind  as  though  afraid  to  glean  like  the 
rest.  Going  up  to  her  he  inquired  :  "  Who  are 
you,  pretty  one  ?  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  daughter  of  Etienne  Poulinet,"  the 
young  girl  replied,  "  the  Mayor  of  Maillane.  My 
name  is  Delaide." 


6  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

"  Does  the  daughter  of  Master  Poulinet,  Mayor 
of  Maillane,  come,  then,  to  glean?"  asked  my 
father  in  surprise. 

"  Sir,  we  are  a  large  family,"  she  answered, 
"  six  daughters  and  two  sons ;  and  our  father, 
though  he  is  fairly  well  off,  when  we  ask  him  for 
pocket-money  to  buy  pretty  clothes,  tells  us  we 
must  go  and  earn  it.  That  is  why  I  have  come 
here  to  glean." 

Six  months  after  this  meeting,  which  recalls 
the  old  biblical  scene  between  Ruth  and  Boaz, 
the  brave  yeoman  asked  the  Mayor  of  Maillane 
for  his  daughter's  hand  in  marriage ;  and  I  was 
born  of  their  union. 

My  entry  into  the  world  took  place  on  September 
8th,  1830.  My  father,  according  to  his  wont,  was 
that  afternoon  in  his  fields  when  they  sent  from 
the  house  to  announce  my  arrival.  The  mes- 
senger, so  soon  as  he  came  within  hearing,  called 
to  him  :  "  Master,  come — the  mistress  is  just 
delivered." 

"  How  many  ?  "  asked  my  father. 

"  One,  my  faith — a  fine  son." 

"  A  son,  may  God  make  him  good  and 
wise." 

And  without  another  word,  as  though  nothing 
had  happened  out  of  the  ordinary,  the  good  man 


CHILDHOOD   AT  MAILLANE          7 

went  on  with  his  work,  and  not  until  it  was  finished 
did  he  return  slowly  to  the  house.  This  did  not 
indicate  that  he  lacked  heart,  but,  brought  up  in 
the  Roman  traditions  of  the  old  Provengeaux, 
his  manners  possessed  the  external  ruggedness 
of  his  ancestors. 

I  was  baptized  Frederic,  in  memory,  it  appears, 
of  a  poor  little  urchin  who,  at  the  time  of  the 
courtship  between  my  parents,  was  employed  in 
carrying  to  and  fro  their  love  missives,  and  died 
shortly  after.  My  birthday  having  fallen  on  Our 
Lady's  Day,  in  September,  my  mother  had 
desired  to  give  me  the  name  of  Nostradamus, 
both  in  gratitude  to  Our  Lady  and  in  memory  of 
the  famous  astrologer  of  Saint-Remy,  author  of 
"  Les  Centuries."  But  this  mystic  and  mythical 
name  which  the  maternal  instinct  had  so  happily 
lit  upon  was  unfortunately  refused  both  by  the 
mayor  and  the  priest. 

Vaguely,  as  through  a  distant  mist,  it  seems 
to  me  I  can  remember  those  early  years  when  my 
mother,  then  in  the  full  glory  of  her  youth  and 
beauty,  nourished  me  with  her  milk  and  bore  me 
in  her  arms,  presenting  with  pride  among  our 
friends  "  her  king "  ;  and  ceremoniously  the 
friends  and  relations  receiving  us  with  the  cus- 
tomary congratulations,  offering  me  a  couple  of 


8  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

eggs,  a  slice  of  bread,  a  pinch  of  salt,  and  a  match, 
with  these  sacramental  words  : 

"  Little  one,  be  full  as  an  egg,  wholesome  as 
bread,  wise  as  salt,  and  straight  as  a  match." 

Perhaps  some  will  think  it  childish  to  relate 
these  things.  But  after  all  every  one  is  free  to 
tell  their  own  tale,  and  I  find  great  pleasure  in 
returning,  in  thought,  to  my  first  swaddling 
clothes,  my  cradle  of  mulberry  wood,  and  my 
wheel-cart,  for  there  I  revive  the  sweetest  joys  of 
my  young  mother. 

When  I  was  six  months  old  I  was  released  from 
the  bands  which  swathed  me,  Nanounet,  my 
grandmother,  having  strongly  counselled  that  I 
should  be  kept  tightly  bound  for  this  period. 
"  Children  well  swathed,"  said  she,  "  are  neither 
bandy-legged  nor  knock-kneed." 

On  St.  Joseph's  Day,  according  to  the  custom  of 
Provence,  I  was  "  given  my  feet."  Triumphantly 
my  mother  bore  me  to  the  church  of  Maillane, 
and  there  on  the  saint's  altar,  while  she  held  me 
by  the  skirts  and  my  godmother  sang  to  me 
"  Avene,  avene,  avene  "  (Come,  come,  come),  I 
was  made  to  take  my  first  steps. 

Every  Sunday  we  went  to  Maillane  for  the 
Mass.  It  was  at  least  two  miles  distant.  All 
the  way  my  mother  rocked  me  in  her  arms.  Oh, 


CHILDHOOD   AT   MAILLANE  9 

how  I  loved  to  rest  on  that  tender  breast,  in  that 
soft  nest  !  But  a  time  came,  I  must  have  been 
five  years  old,  when  midway  to  the  village  my  poor 
mother  put  me  down,  bidding  me  walk,  for  I  was 
too  heavy  to  be  carried  any  more. 

After  Mass  I  used  to  go  with  my  mother  to 
visit  my  grandparents  in  the  fine  vaulted  kitchen 
of  white  stone,  where  usually  congregated  the  nota- 
bilities of  the  place,  Monsieur  Deville,  Monsieur 
Dumas,  Monsieur  Raboux,  the  younger  Riviere, 
and  discussed  politics  as  they  paced  the  stone- 
flagged  floor  to  and  fro  between  the  fireplace  and 
the  dresser. 

Monsieur  Dumas,  who  had  been  a  judge  and 
resigned  in  the  year  1830,  was  specially  fond  of 
giving  his  advice  to  the  young  mothers  present, 
such  as  these  words  of  wisdom,  for  example,  which 
he  repeated  regularly  every  Sunday  : 

"  Neither  knives,  keys,  or  books  should  be  given 
to  children — for  with  a  knife  the  child  may  cut 
himself,  a  key  he  may  lose,  and  a  book  he  may 
tear." 

Monsieur  Dumas  did  not  come  alone  :  with  his 
opulent  wife  and  their  eleven  or  twelve  children 
they  filled  the  parlour,  the  fine  ancestral  parlour, 
all  hung  with  Marseilles  tapestry  on  which  were 
represented  little  birds  and  baskets  of  flowers. 


io  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

There,  to  show  off  the  fine  education  of  his  pro- 
geny, proudly  he  made  them  declaim,  verse  by 
verse,  a  little  from  one,  a  little  from  another,  the 
story  of  Theramene. 

This  accomplished,  he  would  turn  to  my 
mother : 

"  And  your  young  one,  Dela'ide — do  you  not 
teach  him  to  recite  something  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  my  mother  simply  ;  "he  can 
say  the  little  rhyme  of  '  Jean  du  Pore.'  ' 

"Come,  little  one,  recite  '  Jean  du  Pore/  "  cried 
every  one  to  me. 

Then  with  a  bow  to  the  company  I  would 
timidly  falter  : 

Quau  es  mort  ? — Jan  dou  Pore. 

Quau  lou  plouro  ? — Lou  rei  Mouro. 

Quau  lou  ris  ? — La  perdris. 

Quau  lou  canto  ? — La  calandro. 

Quau  ie  viro  a  brand  ? — Lou  quieu  de  la  sartan. 

Quau  n'en  porto  d6u  ? — Lou  quieu  d6u  peir6u.* 


*  JINGLE  OF  JOHN  O'  THE  PIG'S  HEAD. 

Come  tell  me,  who  is  dead  ? — 
Tis  John  o'  the  Pig's  Head. 
And  who  his  dirge  doth  sing  ? — 
Why,  'tis  the  Moorish  King. 
And  who  laughs  o'er  him  now  ? 
The  partridge  doth,  I  trow; 


CHILDHOOD   AT   MAILLANE         n 

It  was  with  these  nursery  rhymes,  songs,  and 
tales  that  our  parents  in  those  days  taught  us  the 
good  Provencal  tongue.  But  at  present,  vanity 
having  got  the  upper  hand  in  most  families,  it 
is  with  the  system  of  the  worthy  Monsieur 
Dumas  that  children  are  taught,  and  little  nin- 
compoops are  turned  out  who  have  no  more 
attachment  or  root  in  their  country  than  found- 
lings, for  it's  the  fashion  of  to-day  to  abjure  all 
that  belongs  to  tradition. 

It  is  now  time  that  I  said  a  little  of  my  maternal 
grandfather,  the  worthy  goodman  Etienne.  He 
was,  like  my  father,  yeoman  farmer,  of  an  old 
family  and  a  good  stock,  but  with  this  difference, 
that  whereas  the  Mistrals  were  workers,  economists 
and  amassers  of  wealth,  who  in  all  the  country 
had  not  their  like,  the  Poulinets  were  careless 
and  happy-go-lucky,  disliked  hard  work,  let  the 
water  run  and  spent  their  harvests.  My  grand- 
sire  Etienne  was,  in  short,  a  veritable  Roger 
Bontemps.* 

Who  makes  a  lay  for  him  that's  gone  ? — 
The  mangle  with  its  creaking  stone. 
Who  was  it  that  his  knell  began  ? — 
The  bottom  of  the  frying-pan. 
Who  wears  for  him  a  mourning  veil  ? — 
The  kettle's  sooty  tail ! 

*  A  legendary  character  renowned  as  a  spendthrift. 


12  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

In  spite  of  having  eight  children,  six  of  whom 
were  girls,  directly  there  was  a  fete  anywhere, 
he  was  off  with  his  boon  companions  for  a  three 
days'  spree.  His  outing  lasted  as  long  as  his 
crowns ;  then,  adaptive  as  a  glove,  his  pockets 
empty,  he  returned  to  the  house.  Grandmother 
Nanon,  a  godly  woman,  would  greet  him  with 
reproaches  : 

"  Art  thou  not  ashamed,  profligate,  to  devour 
the  dowries  of  thy  daughters  ?  " 

"  He,  goodie !  What  need  to  worry !  Our 
little  girls  are  pretty,  they  will  marry  without 
dowries.  And  I  fear  me,  as  thou  sayest,  my 
good  Nanon,  we  shall  have  nothing  for  the  last." 

Thus  teasing  and  caj  oiling  the  good  woman, 
he  made  the  usurers  give  him  mortgages  on  her 
dowry,  lending  him  money  at  the  rate  of  fifty  or 
a  hundred  per  cent.,  and  when  his  gambling 
friends  came  round  to  visit  him  at  sundown  the 
incorrigible  scapegraces  would  make  a  carouse 
in  the  chimney  corner,  singing  all  in  unison  : 

"  We  are  three  jolly  fellows  who  haven't  a 


sou.'1 


There  were  times  when  my  poor  grandmother 
well-nigh  despaired  at  seeing,  one  by  one,  the  best 
portions  of  her  inheritance  disappear,  but  he  would 
laugh  at  her  fears : 


CHILDHOOD   AT   MAILLANE         13 

'  Why,  goosey,  cry  about  a  few  acres  of  land, 
they  are  common  as  blackberries,"  or  : 

"  That  land,  why,  my  dear,  its  returns  did  not 
pay  the  taxes." 

And  again :  "  That  waste  there  ?  Why  it 
was  dry  as  heather  from  our  neighbours'  trees." 

He  had  always  a  retort  equally  prompt  and 
light-hearted.  Even  of  the  usurers  he  would 
say  : 

"  My  faith,  but  it  is  a  happy  thing  there  are  such 
people.  Without  them,  how  should  we  spend- 
thrifts and  gamblers  find  the  needful  cash  at  a 
time  when  money  is  merchandise  ?  " 

In  those  days  Beaucaire  with  its  famous  fair 
was  the  great  point  of  attraction  on  the  Rhone. 
People  of  all  nations,  even  Turks  and  negroes, 
journeyed  there  both  by  land  and  water.  Every- 
thing made  by  the  hand  of  man,  whether  to  feed, 
to  clothe,  to  house,  to  amuse  or  to  ensnare, 
from  the  grindstones  of  the  mill,  bales  of  cloth  or 
canvas,  rings  and  ornaments  made  of  coloured 
glass,  all  were  to  be  found  in  profusion  at 
Beaucaire,  piled  up  in  the  great  vaulted  store- 
houses, the  market-halls,  the  merchant  vessels 
in  the  harbour  or  the  booths  in  the  meadows.  It 
was  a  universal  exhibition  held  yearly  in  the 
month  of  July  of  all  the  industries  of  the  south. 


14  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

Needless  to  say,  my  grandsire  took  good  care 
never  to  miss  this  occasion  of  going  to  Beau- 
caire  for  four  or  five  days'  dissipation.  Under 
the  pretext  of  purchasing  articles  for  the  house- 
hold— such  as  pepper,  cloves,  ginger — he  went  off 
to  the  fair,  a  handkerchief  in  every  pocket  and 
others  new  and  uncut  wound  like  a  belt  round  his 
waist,  for  he  consumed  much  snuff.  There  he 
strolled  about  from  morn  till  eve  among  the 
jugglers,  the  mountebanks,  the  clowns,  and,  above 
all,  the  gypsies,  watching  these  last  with  interest 
as  they  disputed  and  squabbled  over  the  purchase 
of  some  skinny  donkey. 

Punch  and  Judy  possessed  perennial  joys  for 
him.  Open-mouthed  he  stood  among  the  crowd, 
laughing  like  a  boy  at  the  old  jokes,  and  ex- 
periencing an  unholy  joy  as  the  blows  were 
showered  on  the  puppets  representing  law  and 
order. 

This  was  always  the  chance  for  the  watchful 
pickpocket  to  quietly  abstract  one  by  one  his 
handkerchiefs,  a  thing  foreseen  by  my  grand- 
sire,  who,  on  discovering  the  loss,  invariably, 
without  more  ado,  unwound  his  belt  and  used  the 
new  ones,  with  the  result  that  on  returning  home 
he  presented  himself  to  his  family  with  a  nose 
dyed  blue  from  the  unwashed  cotton. 


CHILDHOOD   AT  MAILLANE         15 

"  So  I  see,"  cries  my  grandmother,  "  they  have 
stolen  your  handkerchiefs  again." 

"  Who  told  you  that  ?  "  asks  her  good  man 
in  surprise. 

"  Your  blue  nose,"  answers  she. 

"  Well,  that  Punch  and  Judy  show  was  worth 
it,"  maintains  the  incorrigible  grandsire. 

When  his  daughters,  of  whom,  as  I  have  Said, 
my  mother  was  one,  were  of  an  age  to  marry, 
being  neither  awkward  nor  disagreeable,  in  spite 
of  their  lack  of  dowry,  suitors  appeared  on  the 
scene.  But  when  the  fathers  of  these  youths 
inquired  of  my  grandsire  how  much  he  was 
prepared  to  give  to  his  daughter,  Master  Etienne 
fired  up  in  wrath  : 

"  How  much  do  I  give  my  daughter  ?  Idiot ! 
I  give  your  lad  a  fine  young  filly,  well  trained  and 
handled,  and  you  ask  me  to  add  lands  and  money  ! 
Who  wants  my  daughters  must  take  them  as  they 
are  or  leave  them.  God  be  thanked,  in  the  bread- 
pan  of  Master  Etienne  there  is  always  a  loaf." 

It  was  a  fact  that  each  one  of  the  six  daughters 
of  my  grandfather  were  married  for  the  sake  of 
their  fine  eyes  only,  and  made  good  marriages 
too. 

"  A  pretty  girl,"  says  the  proverb,  "  carries 
her  dowry  in  her  face." 


16  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

But  I  must  not  leave  this  budding  time  of  my 
childhood  without  plucking  one  more  of  memory's 
blooms. 

Behind  the  Judge's  Farm  where  I  was  born 
there  was  a  moat,  the  waters  of  which  supplied 
our  old  draw-well.  The  water,  though  not  deep, 
was  clear  and  rippling,  and  on  a  summer's  day  the 
place  was  to  me  one  of  irresistible  attraction. 

The  draw-well  moat  !  It  was  the  book  in 
which,  while  amusing  myself,  I  learnt  my  first 
lessons  in  natural  history.  There  were  fish, 
both  stickleback  and  young  carp,  which,  as  they 
passed  down  the  stream  in  shoals,  I  endeavoured 
to  catch  with  a  small  canvas  bag  that  had  once 
served  for  nails,  suspended  on  a  long  reed.  There 
were  little  dragon- flies,  green,  blue,  and  black, 
who,  as  they  alighted  on  the  reeds  gently,  oh  so 
gently,  I  seized  with  my  small  fingers — that  is 
when  they  did  not  escape  me,  lightly  and  silently, 
with  a  shimmer  of  their  gauzy  wings ;  there  also 
was  to  be  found  a  kind  of  brown  insect  with  a 
white  belly  which  leaped  in  the  water  and  moved 
his  tiny  paws  like  a  cobbler  at  work.  Little  frogs 
too,  with  dark  gold-spotted  backs  showing 
among  the  tufts  of  moss,  and  who,  on  seeing  me, 
nimbly  plunged  in  the  stream  ;  and  the  triton, 
a  sort  of  aquatic  salamander,  who  wriggled  round 


CHILDHOOD   AT   MAILLANE        17 

in  a  circle;  and  great  horned  beetles,  those 
scavengers  of  the  pools,  called  by  us  the  "  eel- 
killers." 

Add  to  all  these  a  mass  of  aquatic  plants,  such 
as  the  cats-tail,  that  long  cottony  blossom  of  the 
typha-plant ;  and  the  water-lily,  its  wide  round 
leaves  and  white  cup  magnificently  outspread  on 
the  water's  smooth  surface ;  the  gladiole  with  its 
clusters  of  pink  flowers  and  the  pale  narcissus 
mirrored  in  the  stream ;  the  duckweed  with  its 
minute  leaves ;  the  ox-tongue,  which  flowers  like 
a  lustre ;  and  the  forget-me-not,  myosotis,  named 
in  Provence  "  eyes  of  the  Child  Jesus." 

But  of  all  this  wonder-world,  what  held  my 
fancy  most  was  the  water-iris,  a  large  plant  grow- 
ing at  the  water's  edge  in  big  clumps,  with  long 
sword-shaped  leaves  and  beautiful  yellow  blooms 
raising  high  their  heads  like  golden  halberds. 
The  golden  lilies,  which  on  an  azure  field  form  the 
arms  of  France  and  of  Provence,  were  undoubtedly 
suggested  by  these  same  water-iris,  for  the  lily 
and  the  iris  are  really  of  the  same  family,  and 
the  azure  of  the  coat-of-arms  faithfully  represents 
the  water  by  the  edge  of  which  the  iris  grows. 

It  was  a  summer's  day,  about  the  harvest  time. 
All  the  people  of  the  farm-house  were  out  at  work, 
helping  to  bind  up  the  sheaves.  Some  twenty 


i8  MEMOIRS  OF  MISTRAL 

men,  bare-armed,  marched  by  twos  and  fours, 
round  the  horses  and  mules  who  were  treading 
hard.  Some  took  off  the  ears  of  corn  or  tossed 
the  straw  with  their  long  wooden  forks,  while 
others,  bare-foot,  danced  gaily  in  the  sunshine 
on  the  fallen  grain.  High  in  the  air,  upheld  by 
the  three  supports  of  a  rustic  crane,  the  winnowing 
cradle  was  suspended.  A  group  of  women  and 
girls  with  baskets  threw  the  corn  and  husks  into 
the  net  of  the  sieve,  and  the  master,  my  father, 
vigorous  and  erect,  swung  the  sieve  towards  the 
wind,  turning  the  bad  grains  on  to  the  top.  When 
the  wind  abated  or  at  intervals  ceased,  my  father, 
with  the  motionless  sieve  in  his  hands,  facing  the 
wind  and  gazing  out  into  the  blue,  would  say  in 
all  seriousness,  as  though  addressing  a  friendly 
god  :  "  Come,  blow,  blow,  dear  wind." 

And  I  have  seen  the  "  mistral,"  on  my  word, 
in  obedience  to  the  wish  of  the  patriarch,  again 
and  again  draw  breath,  thus  carrying  off  the 
refuse  while  the  blessed  fine  wheat  fell  in  a  white 
shower  on  the  conical  heap  visibly  rising  in  the 
midst  of  the  winnowers. 

At  sunset,  after  the  grain  had  been  heaped  up 
with  shovels,  and  the  men,  all  powdered  with 
dust,  had  gone  off  to  wash  at  the  well  and  draw 
water  for  the  beasts,  my  father  with  great  strides 


CHILDHOOD   AT   MAILLANE         19 

would  measure  the  heap  of  corn,  tracing  upon  it  a 
cross  with  the  handle  of  the  spade  and  uttering 
the  words  :  "  God  give  thee  increase." 

I  must  have  been  scarcely  four  years  old  and 
still  wearing  petticoats,  when  one  lovely  after- 
noon during  this  threshing  season,  after  rolling 
as  children  love  to  do  in  the  new  straw,  I  directed 
my  steps  towards  the  draw-well  moat. 

For  some  days  past  the  fair  water-iris  had 
commenced  to  open,  and  my  hands  tingled  to 
pluck  some  of  the  lovely  golden  buds. 

Arrived  at  the  stream,  gently  I  slipped  down 
to  the  edge  of  the  water  and  thrust  out  my 
hand  to  grab  the  flower,  but  it  was  too  far  off ; 
I  stretched,  and  behold  me  in  an  instant  up  to 
the  neck  in  water. 

I  cried  out.  My  mother  hurried  to  the  rescue, 
hauled  me  out,  bestowing  a  slap  or  two,  and  drove 
me  like  a  dripping  duck  before  her  to  the  house. 

"  Let  me  catch  you  again,  little  good-for- 
nothing,  at  that  moat !  " 

"  I  wanted  to  pick  the  water-iris,"  I  pleaded. 

"  Oh  yes,  go  there  again  to  pick  iris  !  Don't 
you  know,  then,  little  rascal,  there  is  a  snake 
hidden  in  the  grass,  a  big  snake  who  swallows 
whole,  both  birds  and  children." 

She  undressed  me,  taking  off  my  small  shoes, 


20  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

socks,  and  shirt,  and  while  my  clothes  dried  put 
me  on  my  '  Sunday  sabots  and  suit,  with  the 
warning  : 

"  Take  care  now  to  keep  yourself  clean." 

Behold  me  again  out  of  doors  ;  on  the  new 
straw  I  executed  a  happy  caper,  then  catching 
sight  of  a  white  butterfly  hovering  over  the 
stubble,  off  I  went,  my  blonde  curls  flying  in  the 
wind  and — all  at  once  there  I  was  again  at  the 
moat ! 

Oh,  my  beautiful  yellow  flowers  !  They  were 
still  there,  proudly  rising  out  of  the  water,  showing 
themselves  off  in  a  manner  it  was  impossible  to 
withstand.  Very  cautiously  I  descend  the  bank 
planting  my  feet  squarely ;  I  thrust  out  my  hand, 
I  lean  forward,  stretching  as  far  as  I  can  .  .  . 
and  splash  ...  I  am  in  the  water  again. 

Woe  is  me !  While  about  me  the  bubbles 
gurgled  and  among  the  rushes  I  thought  I  spied 
the  great  snake,  a  loud  voice  cried  out  : 

"  Mistress,  run  quick,  that  child  is  in  the  water 
again." 

My  mother  came  running.  She  seized  me  and 
dragged  me  all  black  from  the  muddy  bank,  and 
the  first  thing  I  received  was  a  resounding  smack. 

"  You  will  go  back  to  those  flowers  ?  You 
will  try  to  drown  yourself  ?  A  new  suit  ruined, 


CHILDHOOD  AT   MAILLANE        21 

little  rascal — little  monster  !  nearly  killing  me 
with  fright  !  " 

Bedraggled  and  crying,  I  returned  to  the  farm- 
house, head  hanging.  Again  I  was  undressed, 
and  this1  time  arrayed  in  my  festal  suit.  Oh, 
that  fine  suit !  I  can  still  see  it  with  the  bands 
of  black  velvet,  and  gold  dots  on  a  blue  ground. 

Surveying  myself  in  my  bravery,  I  asked  my 
mother :  "  But  what  am  I  to  do  now  ?  " 

"  Go  take  care  of  the  chickens,"  she  said ; 
"  don't  let  them  stray — and  you  stay  in  the 
shade." 

Full  of  zeal  I  ran  off  to  the  chickens,  who  were 
pecking  about  for  ears  of  corn  in  the  stubble. 
While  at  my  post,  curiously  enough  I  perceive 
all  at  once  a  crested  pullet  giving  chase  to — what 
do  you  think  ?  Why,  a  grasshopper,  the  kind 
with  red  and  blue  wings.  Both,  with  me  after 
them,  for  I  wished  to  examine  those  wings,  were 
soon  dancing  over  the  fields  and,  as  luck  would 
have  it,  we  found  ourselves  before  long  at  the 
draw-well  moat. 

And  there  were  those  golden  flowers  again 
mirrored  in  the  water  and  exciting  my  desire; 
but  a  desire  so  passionate,  delirious,  excessive,  as 
to  make  me  entirely  forget  my  two  previous 
disasters. 


22  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

"  This  time/'  I  said  to  myself,  "  I  will  certainly 
succeed." 

So  descending  the  bank  I  twisted  around  my 
hand  a  reed  that  grew  there,  and  leaning  over 
the  water  very  prudently,  tried  once  again  to 
reach  the  iris  blooms  with  the  other  hand.  But 
misery  !  the  reed  broke  and  played  me  false — 
into  the  middle  of  the  stream  I  plunged  head 
foremost. 

I  righted  myself  as  best  I  could  and  shrieked 
like  a  lost  one.  Every  one  came  running. 

"  There's  the  little  imp,  in  the  water  again  ! 
This  time,  you  incorrigible  youngster,  your  mother 
will  give  you  the  whipping  you  deserve." 

But  she  did  not.  Down  the  pathway  I  saw  her 
coming,  the  poor  mother,  and  tears  were  in  her 
eyes. 

"  O  Lord,"  she  cried,  "  but  I  won't  whip  him; 
he  might  have  a  fit — this  boy  is  not  like  others. 
By  all  the  saints  he  does  nothing  but  run  after 
flowers ;  he  loses  all  his  toys  scrambling  in  the 
cornfields  after  nosegays.  Now,  as  a  climax,  he 
has  thrown  himself  three  times  within  an  hour 
into  this  moat  !  I  can  only  clean  him  up,  and 
thank  heaven  he  is  not  drowned." 

We  mingled  our  tears  together  as  we  went  home, 
then  once  indoors,  saint  that  she  was,  my  mother 


CHILDHOOD  AT  MAILLANE         23 

again  unclothed  and  dried  me,  and  to  ward  off 
all  evil  consequences  administered  a  dose  of 
vermifuge  before  putting  me  to  bed,  where  worn 
out  with  emotion  I  soon  fell  asleep. 

Can  any  one  guess  of  what  I  dreamt  ?  Why, 
of  my  iris  flowers  !  .  .  .  In  a  lovely  stream  of 
water  which  wound  all  round  the  farm-house,  a 
limpid,  transparent,  azure  stream  like  the  waters 
of  the  fountain  at  Vaucluse,  I  beheld  the  most 
beautiful  clumps  of  iris  covered  with  a  perfect 
wonder  of  golden  blossoms !  Little  dragon-flies 
with  blue  silk  wings  came  and  settled  on  the  flowers, 
while  I  swam  about  naked  in  the  laughing  rivulet 
and  plucked  by  handfuls  and  armfuls  those 
enchanting  yellow  blooms.  And  the  more  I 
picked  the  more  sprang  up. 

"All  at  once  I  heard  a  voice  calling  to  me, 
"  Frederic!"  I  awoke,  and  to  my  joy  I  saw — 
a  great  bunch  of  golden  iris  all  shining  by  my 
side. 

The  Master  himself,  my  worshipful  sire,  had 
actually  gone  to  pick  those  flowers  I  so  longed  for ; 
and  the  Mistress,  my  dear  sweet  mother,  had 
placed  them  on  my  bed. 


CHAPTER   II 
MY  FATHER 

MY  early  years  were  passed  at  the  farm  in  the 
company  of  labourers,  reapers  and  shepherds. 

When  occasionally  a  townsman  visited  our  farm, 
one  of  those  who  affected  to  speak  only  French, 
it  puzzled  me  sorely  and  even  disconcerted  me 
to  see  my  parents  all  at  once  take  on  a  respectful 
manner  to  the  stranger,  as  though  they  felt  him 
to  be  their  superior.  I  was  perplexed,  too,  at 
hearing  another  tongue. 

"  Why  is  it,"  I  asked,  "  that  man  does  not 
speak  like  we  do  ?  " 

"  Because  he  is  a  gentleman,"  I  was  told. 

"  Then  I  will  never  be  a  gentleman,"  I  replied 
resentfully. 

I  remarked  also  that  when  we  received  visitors, 
such,  for  instance,  as  the  Marquis  de  Barbentane, 
our  neighbour,  my  father,  who  when  speaking  of 
my  mother  before  the  servants  called  her  "  the 
mistress,"  to  the  Marquis  merely  referred  to  her 
as  "  my  wife."  The  grand  Marquis  and  his  lady, 
the  Marquise,  a  sister  of  the  great  General  de 


MY   FATHER  25 

Gallifet,  whenever  they  came  used  to  bring  me 
cakes  and  sweets,  but  in  spite  of  this,  no  sooner 
did  I  see  them  driving  up  in  their  carriage  than, 
like  the  young  savage  that  I  was,  off  I  ran  and  hid 
in  the  hay-loft.  In  vain  my  poor  mother  would 
call  "  Frederic."  Crouching  in  the  hay  and 
holding  my  breath,  I  waited  until  I  heard  the 
departing  carriage  wheels  of  our  guests,  and  my 
mother  declaiming  for  the  benefit  of  all :  "  It  is 
insufferable ;  here  are  Monsieur  de  Barbentane  and 
Madame  de  Barbentane,  who  come  on  purpose  to  see 
that  child,  and  he  goes  off  and  hides  himself ! " 

And  when  I  crept  out  of  my  hiding-place, 
instead  of  the  sweets,  I  received  a  good  spanking. 

What  I  really  loved,  however,  was  to  go  off 
with  Papoty,  our  head-man,  when  he  set  out  with 
the  plough  behind  the  two  mules. 

"  Come  on,  youngster,  and  I'll  teach  you  to 
plough,"  he  would  call  enticingly. 

Then  and  there  off  I  would  go,  bareheaded  and 
barefooted,  briskly  following  in  the  furrow,  and 
as  I  ran,  picking  the  flowers,  primroses  and  blue 
musk,  turned  up  by  the  blade. 

How  joyous  it  was,  this  atmosphere  of  rustic 
life.  Each  season  in  turn  brought  its  round  of 
labour.  Ploughing,  sowing,  shearing,  reaping,  the 
silk-worms,  the  harvests,  the  threshing,  the  vintage 


26  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

and  the  olive  gathering,  unrolled  before  my  eyes 
the  majestic  acts  of  the  agricultural  life,  always  a 
stern,  hard  life,  yet  always  one  of  calm  and  freedom. 

A  numerous  company  of  labourers  came  and 
went  at  the  farm,  weeders,  haymakers,  men  hired 
by  the  day  or  the  month,  who  with  the  goad,  the 
rake,  or  the  fork  a-shoulder  toiled  with  the  free 
noble  gestures  of  the  peasants  so  well  depicted 
in  Leopold  Robert's  pictures. 

At  the  dinner  or  supper  hour,  the  men,  one  after 
the  other,  trooped  into  the  farm-house,  seating 
themselves  according  to  their  station  around  the 
big  table.  Then  the  master,  my  father,  at  the  head, 
would  question  them  gravely  on  the  work  of  the  day, 
the  state  of  the  flocks,  of  the  ground  or  the  weather. 
The  repast  ended,  the  chief  carter  shut  to  the  blade 
of  his  big  clasp-knife,  the  signal  for  all  to  rise. 

In  stature,  in  mind,  as  well  as  in  character,  my 
father  towered  above  these  country  folk,  a  grand 
old  patriarch,  dignified  in  speech,  just  in  his  rule, 
beneficent  to  the  poor,  severe  only  to  himself. 

He  loved  to  recall  the  early  days  when  as  a 
volunteer  he  served  in  the  army  during  the  revolu- 
tion, and  to  recount  tales  of  the  war  as  we  sat 
round  the  hearth  in  the  evening. 

Once  during  the  Reign  of  Terror  he  had  been 
requisitioned  to  carry  corn  to  Paris,  where  famine 
was  then  raging.  It  was  just  after  they  had  killed 


MY   FATHER  27 

the  king,  and  France  was  paralysed  with  con- 
sternation and  horror.  One  winter's  day,  returning 
across  Bourgogne,  with  a  cold  sleet  beating  in  his 
face  and  his  cart-wheels  half  buried  in  the  muddy 
road,  he  met  a  carrier  of  his  own  village.  The 
two  compatriots  shook  hands,  and  my  father 
inquired  whither  the  other  was  bound  in  this 
villainous  weather  : 

"  I  am  for  Paris,  citizen,"  replied  the  man, 
"  taking  there  our  church  bells  and  altar  saints." 

"  Accursed  fellow,"  cried  my  father,  trembling 
with  wrath  and  indignation,  and  taking  off  his 
hat  as  he  looked  at  the  church  relics.  "  I  suppose 
you  think  on  your  return  they  will  make  you  a 
Deputy  for  this  devil's  work  ?  " 

The  iconoclast  skulked  off  with  an  oath  and 
went  on  his  way. 

My  father,  I  should  observe,  was  profoundly 
religious.  In  the  evening,  summer  and  winter, 
it  was  his  custom  to  gather  round  him  the  house- 
hold, and  kneeling  on  his  chair,  head  uncovered 
and  hands  crossed,  his  white  hair  in  a  queue  tied 
with  a  black  ribbon,  he  would  pray  and  read  the 
gospels  aloud  to  us. 

My  father  read  but  three  books  in  his  life: 
the  New  Testament,  the  "  Imitation,"  and  "  Don 
Quixote"  ;  the  latter  he  loved  because  it  recalled 
his  campaign  in  Spain,  and  helped  to  pass  the  time 


28  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

when  a  rainy  season  forced  him  indoors.  In  his 
youth  schools  were  rare,  and  it  was  from  a  poor 
pedlar,  who  made  his  rounds  of  the  farms  once  a 
week,  that  my  father  learnt  his  alphabet. 

On  Sunday  after  vespers,  according  to  the  old- 
time  usage  as  head  of  the  house,  he  did  the  weekly 
accounts,  debit  and  credit  with  annotations,  in  a 
great  volume  called  "  Cartabeou." 

Whatever  the  weather,  he  was  always  content. 
When  he  heard  grumbling,  either  at  tempestuous 
winds  or  torrential  rains,  "  Good  people,"  he  would 
say,  "  the  One  above  knows  very  well  what  He 
is  about  and  also  what  we  need.  .  .  .  Supposing 
these  great  winds  which  revivify  our  Provence 
and  clear  off  the  fogs  and  vapours  of  our  marshes 
never  blew  ?  And  if,  equally,  we  were  never 
visited  by  the  heavy  rains  which  supply  the  wells 
and  springs  and  rivers  ?  We  need  all  sorts,  my 
children." 

Though  he  would  not  scorn  to  pick  up  a  faggot 
on  the  road  and  carry  it  to  the  hearth,  and  though 
he  was  content  with  vegetables  and  brown  bread 
for  his  daily  fare,  and  was  so  abstemious  always 
as  to  mix  water  with  his  wine,  yet  at  his  table 
the  stranger  never  failed  to  find  a  welcome,  and 
his  hand  and  purse  were  ever  open  to  the  poor. 

Faithful  to  the  old  customs,  the  great  festival 


MY   FATHER  29 

of  the  year  on  our  farm  was  Christmas  Eve. 
That  day  the  labourers  knocked  off  work  early, 
and  my  mother  presented  to  each  one,  wrapped 
up  in  a  cloth,  a  fine  oil-cake,  a  stick  of  nougat,  a 
bunch  of  dried  figs,  a  cream  cheese,  a  salad  of 
celery,  and  a  bottle  of  wine. 

Then  every  man  returned  to  his  own  village 
and  home  to  burn  the  Yule  log.  Only  some  poor 
fellow  who  had  no  home  would  remain  at  the  farm, 
and  occasionally  a  poor  relation,  an  old  bachelor 
for  example,  would  arrive  at  night  saying  : 

"  A  merry  Christmas,  cousin.  I  have  come  to 
help  you  burn  the  Yule  log." 

Then,  a  merry  company,  we  all  sallied  forth  to 
fetch  the  log,  which  according  to  tradition  must 
be  cut  from  a  fruit-tree.  Walking  in  line  we  bore 
it  home,  headed  by  the  oldest  at  one  end,  and  I, 
the  last  born,  bringing  up  the  rear.  Three  times 
we  made  the  tour  of  the  kitchen,  then,  arrived  at 
the  flagstones  of  the  hearth,  my  father  solemnly 
poured  over  the  log  a  glass  of  wine,  with  the 
dedicatory  words  : 

"  Jov>  joy-  May  God  shower  joy  upon  us,  my 
dear  children.  Christmas  brings  us  all  good 
things.  God  give  us  grace  to  see  the  New  Year, 
and  if  we  do  not  increase  in  numbers  may  we  at 
all  events  not  decrease." 


30  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

In  chorus,  we  responded  : 

"  J°y>  }°y>  J°y  '  "  and  lifted  the  log  on  the 
fire-dogs.  Then  as  the  first  flame  leapt  up  my 
father  would  cross  himself,  saying,  "  Burn  the  log, 
O  fire,"  and  with  that  we  all  sat  down  to  the  table. 

Oh,  that  happy  table,  blessed  in  the  truest 
sense,  peace  and  joy  in  every  heart  of  the  united 
family  assembled  round  it.  In  the  place  of  the 
ordinary  lamp  suspended  from  the  ceiling,  on  this 
occasion  we  lit  the  three  traditional  candles, 
regarded  by  the  company  not  without  anxiety, 
lest  the  wick  should  turn  towards  any  one — always 
a  bad  augury.  At  each  end  of  the  table  sprouted 
some  corn  in  a  plate  of  water,  set  to  germinate 
on  St.  Barbara's  Day,  and  on  the  triple  linen 
tablecloths*  were  placed  the  customary  dishes, 
snails  in  their  shells,  fried  slices  of  cod  and  grey 
mullet  garnished  with  olives,  cardoon,  scholium, 
peppered  celery,  besides  a  variety  of  sweetmeats 
reserved  for  this  feast,  such  as  hearth-cakes, 
dried  raisins,  almond  nougat,  tomatoes,  and  then, 
most  important  of  all,  the  big  Christmas  loaf, 
which  is  never  partaken  of  until  one-quarter  has 
been  bestowed  on  the  first  passing  beggar. 

During  the  long  evening  which  followed  before 

*  The  three  tablecloths  are  graduated  in  size,  commencing 
with  the  largest,  and  are  de  rigueur  for  festal  occasions. 


MY  FATHER  31 

starting  out  for  the  midnight  Mass,  gathered  round 
the  log  fire  we  told  tales  of  past  days  and  recalled 
the  grand  old  folks  who  were  gone,  and  little  by 
little  my  worthy  father  never  failed  to  come  back 
to  his  favourite  Spanish  wars  and  the  famous 
siege  of  Figuieres. 

On  New  Year's  Day,  again,  our  home  was  the 
centre  of  hospitality,  and  we  were  greeted  at 
early  dawn  by  a  crowd  of  our  poorer  neighbours, 
old  people,  women  and  children,  who  came  round 
the  farm-house  singing  their  good  wishes  for  the 
coming  year.  My  father  and  mother,  with  kindly 
response,  presented  to  each  one  a  gift  of  two  long 
loaves  and  two  round  ones.  To  all  the  poor  of 
the  village  we  also  gave,  in  accordance  with  the 
tradition  of  our  house,  two  batches  of  bread. 

Every  evening  my  father  included  this  formula 
in  his  evening  prayer  : 

Did  I  live  a  hundred  years 

A  hundred  years  I  would  bake, 

And  a  hundred  years  give  to  the  poor. 

At  his  funeral  the  poor  who  mourned  him  said 
with  fervour :  "  May  he  have  as  many  angels  to  bear 
him  to  Paradise  as  he  gave  us  loaves  of  bread." 

This  is  a  picture  of  the  simple  and  noble  patri- 
archal life  of  Provence  in  my  youth. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  MAGI    KINGS 

THE  eve  of  the  Feast  of  Epiphany  it  was  the 
custom  for  all  the  children  of  our  countryside  to 
go  forth  to  meet  the  three  kings,  the  wise  men 
from  the  East,  who  with  their  camels  and  attend- 
ants' and  all  their  suite  came  in  procession  to 
Maillane  there  to  adore  the  Holy  Child. 

One  such  occasion  I  well  remember. 

With  hearts  beating  in  joyful  excitement,  eyes 
full  of  visions,  we  sallied  forth  on  the  road  to  Aries 
a  numerous  company  of  shock-headed  urchins 
and  blonde-headed  maidens  with  little  hoods 
and  sabots,  bearing  our  offerings  of  cakes  for  the 
kings,  dried  figs  for  their  pages,  and  hay  for  the 
camels. 

The  east  wind  blew,  which  means  it  was  cold. 
The  sun  sank,  lurid,  into  the  Rhone.  The  streams 
were  frozen,  and  the  grass  at  the  water's  edge 
dried  up.  The  bark  of  the  leafless  trees  showed 
ruddy  tints,  and  the  robin  and  wren  hopped 
shivering  from  branch  to  branch.  Not  a  soul  was 
to  be  seen  in  the  fields,  save  perhaps  some  poor 


THE  MAGI   KINGS  33 

widow  picking  up  sticks  or  a  ragged  beggar 
seeking  snails  beneath  the  dead  hedges. 

'  Where  go  you  so  late,  children  ?  "  inquired 
some  passer-by. 

"  We  go  to  meet  the  kings,"  we  answered 
confidently. 

And  like  young  cocks,  our  heads  in  the  air, 
along  the  white,  wind-swept  road  we  continued 
our  way,  singing  and  laughing,  sliding  and 
hopping. 

The  daylight  waned.  The  bell-tower  of  Maillane 
disappeared  behind  the  trees,  the  tall  dark  pointed 
cypresses  and  the  wide  barren  plain  stretched 
away  into  the  dim  distance.  We  strained  our  eyes 
as  far  as  they  could  see,  but  in  vain.  Nothing 
was  in  sight  save  some  branch  broken  by  the  wind 
laying  on  the  stubbly  field.  Oh,  the  sadness  of 
those  mid-winter  evenings  when  all  nature  seemed 
dumb  and  suffering. 

Then  we  met  a  shepherd,  his  cloak  wrapped 
tightly  round  him,  returning  from  tending  his 
sheep.  He  asked  whither  we  were  bound  so  late 
in  the  day.  We  inquired  anxiously  had  he  seen 
the  kings,  and  were  they  still  a  long  way  off. 
Oh,  the  joy  when  he  replied  that  he  had  passed 
the  kings  not  so  very  long  since — soon  we  should 
see  them.  Off  we  set  running  with  all  speed, 

c 


34  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

running  to  meet  the  kings  and  present  our  cakes 
and  handfuls  of  hay. 

Then,  just  as  the  sun  disappeared  behind  a  great 
dark  cloud  and  the  bravest  among  us  began  to 
flag — suddenly,  behold  them  in  sight. 

A  joyful  shout  rang  from  every  throat  as  the 
magnificence  of  the  royal  pageant  dazzled  our 
sight. 

A  flash  of  splendour  and  gorgeous  colour  shone 
in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  while  the  blazing 
torches  showed  the  gleams  of  gold  on  crowns  set 
with  rubies  and  precious  stones. 

The  kings !  The  kings !  See  their  crowns ! 
See  their  mantles — their  flags,  and  the  procession 
of  camels  and  horses  which  are  coming. 

We  stood  there  entranced.  But  instead  of 
approaching  us  little  by  little  the  glory  and 
splendour  of  the  vision  seemed  to  melt  away 
before  our  eyes  with  the  sinking  sun,  extinguished 
in  the  shadows.  Crestfallen  we  stood  there, 
gaping  to  find  ourselves  alone  on  the  darkening 
highway. 

Which  way  did  the  kings  go  ? 

They  passed  behind  the  mountain. 

The  white  owl  hooted.  Fear  seized  us,  and 
huddling  together  we  turned  homewards,  munching 
the  cakes  and  figs  we  had  brought  for  the  kings. 


THE   MAGI   KINGS  35 

Our  mothers  greeted  us  with,  "  Well,  did  you 
see  them  ?  " 

Sadly  we  answered,  "  Only  afar — they  passed 
behind  the  mountain." 

"  But  which  road  did  you  take  ?  " 

"  The  road  to  Aries." 

"  Oh,  poor  lambs — but  the  kings  never  come 
by  that  road.  They  come  from  the  East — you 
should  have  taken  the  Roman  road.  Ah  dear, 
what  a  pity,  you  should  have  seen  them  enter 
Maillane.  It  was  a  beautiful  slight,  with  their 
tambours  and  trumpets,  the  pages  and  the  camels 
—it  was  a  show  !  Now  they  are  gone  to  the 
church  to  offer  their  adoration.  After  supper  you 
shall  go  and  see  them  !  " 

We  supped  with  speed,  I  at  my  grandmother's, 
and  then  we  ran  to  the  church.  It  was  crowded, 
and,  as  we  entered,  the  voices  of  all  the  people, 
accompanied  by  the  organ,  burst  forth  into  the 
superbly  majestic  Christmas  hymn  : 

This  morn  I  met  the  train 

Of  the  three  great  kings  from  the  East ; 

This  morn  I  met  the  train 

Of  the  kings  on  the  wide  high  road. 

We  children,  fascinated,  threaded  our  way 
between  the  women,  till  we  reached  the  Chapel 
of  the  Nativity.  There,  suspended  above  the 


36  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

altar,  was  the  beautiful  star,  and  bowing  the  knee 
in  adoration  before  the  Holy  Child  we  beheld  at 
last  the  three  kings.  Gaspard,  with  his  crimson 
mantle,  offering  a  casket  of  gold ;  Melchior,  arrayed 
in  yellow,  bearing  in  his  hands  a  gift  of  incense ; 
and  Balthazar,  with  his  cloak  of  blue,  presenting 
a  vase  of  the  sadly  prophetic  myrrh.  How  we 
admired  the  finely  dressed  pages  who  upheld 
the  kings'  flowing  mantles,  and  the  great  humped 
camels  whose  heads  rose  high  above  the  sacred 
ass  and  ox ;  also  the  Holy  Virgin  and  Saint  Joseph, 
besides  all  the  wonderful  background,  a  little 
mountain  in  painted  paper  with  shepherds  and 
shepherdesses  bringing  hearth-cakes,  baskets  of 
eggs,  swaddling  clothes,  the  miller  with  a  sack  of 
corn,  the  old  woman  spinning,  the  knife-grinder 
at  his  wheel,  the  astonished  innkeeper  at  his 
window,  in  short,  all  the  traditional  crowd  who 
figure  in  the  Nativity,  and,  above  and  beyond  all, 
the  Moorish  king. 

Many  a  time  since  those  early  days  it  has 
chanced  that  I  have  found  myself  upon  the  road 
to  Aries  at  this  same  Epiphany  season  about 
dusk.  Still  the  robin  and  the  wren  haunt  the  long 
hawthorn  hedge.  Still  some  poor  old  beggar 
may  be  seen  searching  for  snails  in  the  ditch, 
and  still  the  hoot  of  the  owl  breaks  the  stillness 
of  the  winter  evening.  But  in  the  rays  of  the 


THE  MAGI   KINGS  37 

setting  sun  I  see  no  more  the  glory  and  crowns 
of  the  old  kings. 

Which  way  have  they  passed,  the  kings  ? 

Behind  the  mountain. 

Alas  this  melancholy  and  sadness  clings  always 
around  the  things  seen  with  the  eyes  of  our  youth. 
However  grand,  however  beautiful  the  landscape 
we  have  known  in  early  days,  when  we  return, 
eager  to  see  it  once  more,  something  is  ever 
lacking,  something  or  some  one  ! 

"  Oh,  let  me,  dreaming,  lose  myself  down  yonder 
Where  widespread  cornfields,  red  with  poppies,  lie, 
As  when  a  little  lad,  I  used  to  wander 
And  lose  myself,  beneath  the  self-same  sky. 

Some  one,  searching  every  cover, 
Seeks  for  me,  the  whole  field  over, 
Saying  her  angelus  piously ; 
But  where  yon  the  skylarks,  singing, 
Through  the  sun  their  way  are  winging, 
I  follow  so  fast  and  eagerly. 
O  poor  mother !  loving-hearted, 
Dear,  great  soul !  thou  hast  departed ; 
No  more  shall  I  hear  thee,  calling  me."  * 

(From  "  Les  Isclo  d'Or."    Trans.  Alma  Strettell). 

Who  can  give  me  back  the  ideal  joy  and  delight 
of  my  child-heart  as  I  sat  at  my  mother's  knee 
drinking  in  the  wonder -tales  and  fables,  the  old 
songs  and  rhymes,  as  she  sang  and  spoke  them  in 
the  soft  sweet  language  of  Provence. 
*  For  Proven£al  text,  see  p.  324. 


38  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

There  was  the  "  Pater  des  Calandes,"  Marie- 
Madeleine  the  poor  fisher -girl,  The  Cabin-boy  of 
Marseilles,  the  Swineherd,  the  Miser,  and  how 
many  other  tales  and  legends  of  Provence  to  which 
the  cradle  of  my  early  years  was  rocked,  filling 
my  dreams  with  poetic  visions.  Thus  from  my 
mother  I  drew  not  only  nourishment  for  my 
body  but  for  my  mind  and  soul,  the  sweet  honey 
of  noble  tradition  and  faith  in  God. 

In  the  present  day,  the  narrow  materialistic 
system  refuses  to  reckon  with  the  wings  of  child- 
hood, the  divine  instincts  of  the  budding  imagina- 
tion and  its  necessity  to  wonder,  that  faculty 
which  formerly  gave  us  our  saints  and  heroes, 
poets  and  artists.  The  child  of  to-day  no  sooner 
opens  his  eyes  than  his  elders  try  to  wither  up 
both  heart  and  soul.  Poor  lunatics  !  Life  and 
the  day-school,  above  all  the  school  of  experience, 
will  teach  him  but  too  soon  the  mean  realities  of 
life,  and  the  disillusions,  analectic  and  scientific, 
of  all  that  so  enchanted  our  youth. 

If  some  tiresome  anatomist  told  the  young 
lover  that  the  fair  maiden  of  his  heart,  in  the 
bloom  of  her  youth  and  beauty,  was  but  a  grim 
skeleton  when  robbed  of  her  outer  covering, 
would  he  not  be  justified  in  shooting  him  out  of 
hand  ? 


THE  MAGI   KINGS  39 

In  connection  with  those  traditions  and  wonder- 
tales  of  Provence,  familiar  to  my  childhood,  I 
cannot  do  better  than  quote  old  Dame  Renaude, 
a  gossip  of  our  village  when  I  was  a  boy. 

Still  I  can  picture  her  seated  on  a  log  and 
sunning  herself  at  her  door.  She  is  withered, 
shrivelled  and  lined,  the  poor  old  soul,  like  a  dried 
fig.  Brushing  away  the  teasing  flies,  she  drinks 
in  the  sunshine,  dozes  and  sleeps  the  hours  away. 

"Taking  a  little  nap  in  the  sun,  Tante 
Renaude  ?  " 

"Well,  see  you,  I  was  neither  exactly  waking 
nor  sleeping — I  said  my  paternosters  and  I  dreamt 
a  bit — and  praying,  you  know,  one  is  apt  to  doze. 
Aye,  but  it  is  a  bad  thing  when  one  is  past  work — 
the  time  hangs  heavy  on  hand." 

"  Won't  you  catch  cold  sitting  out  of  doors  ?  " 

"  Me,  catch  cold  ?  Why  I  am  dry  as  match- 
wood. If  I  was  boiled  I  shouldn't  furnish  a 
drop  of  oil." 

"  If  I  were  you  I  would  stroll  round  quietly 
and  have  a  chat  with  some  old  crony — it  would 
help  pass  the  time." 

"The  old  gossips  of  my  time  are  nearly  all 
gone,  soon  there  won't  be  one  left.  True,  there 
is  still  the  old  Genevieve,  deaf  as  a  plough,  and  old 
Patantane  in  her  dotage,  and  Catherine  de  Four 


40  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

who  does  nothing  but  groan — I've  enough  of  my 
own  ailments.     Oh  no,  it  is  better  to  be  alone." 

"  Why  not  go  and  have  a  chat  with  the  washer- 
women down  there  at  the  wash-house  ?  " 

"  What,  those  hussies  ?  who  backbite  and  pull 
each  other  to  pieces,  first  one  and  then  the 
other,  the  livelong  day.  They  abuse  every  one 
and  then  laugh  like  idiots.  The  good  God  will 
send  a  judgment  on  them  one  of  these  days. 
Aye,  but  it  was  not  so  in  our  time." 

"  What  did  you  talk  about  in  your  time  ?  " 

"  In  our  time  ?  Why,  we  told  old  histories  and 
tales  which  it  was  a  pleasure  to  listen  to,  such  as 
'  The  Beast  with  Seven  Heads,'  '  Fearless  John/ 
and  ( The  Great  Body  without  a  Soul.'  Why  one 
of  those  tales  would  last  us  three  or  four  evenings. 
At  that  time  we  spun  our  own  wool  and  hemp. 
Winter  time  after  supper  we  used  to  take  our 
distaffs  and  meet  together  in  some  big  sheep-barn, 
and  while  the  men  fed  and  folded  the  beasts  and 
outside  the  north  wind  blew  and  the  dogs  howled 
at  the  prowling  wolves,  we  women  huddled  together 
with  the  young  lambs  and  their  mothers,  and  as 
our  spinning-wheels  hummed  busily,  told  each 
other  tales. 

Wfa"  We  believed  in  those  days  in  things  which  they 
laugh  at  now,  but  which  all  the  same  were  seen 


THE  MAGI   KINGS  41 

by  people  I  myself  know,  people  whose  word  was 
to  be  trusted.  There  was  my  Aunt  Mian,  wife  of 
the  basket-maker  whose  grandsons  live  at  the  Clos 
de  Pain-Perdu ;  one  day  when  she  was  picking  up 
sticks,  she  saw  all  at  once  a  fine  white  hen.  It 
seemed  quite  tame,  but  when  my  Aunt  put  out  her 
hand  gently  the  hen  eluded  her,  and  commenced 
pecking  in  the  grass  a  little  way  off.  Very  cau- 
tiously again  Aunt  Mian  approached  the  hen,  who 
seemed  to  desire  to  be  caught.  But  directly  my 
aunt  thought  she  had  got  her,  off  she  was — the 
aunt  following,  more  and  more  determined  to 
catch  her.  More  than  an  hour  she  led  her  a  dance, 
then  as  the  sun  went  down  Mian  took  fright 
and  turned  home.  Lucky  for  her  she  did,  for  had 
she  gone  after  that  white  hen  all  night,  the  Holy 
Virgin  only  knows  where  the  creature  would  have 
landed  the  poor  woman  ! 

"  Folks  told,  too,  of  a  black  horse  or  mule,  some 
said  it  was  a  huge  sow,  which  appeared  to  the 
young  rakes  as  they  came  out  of  the  public-house. 
One  night  at  Avignon  a  lot  of  good-for-nothings 
on  the  spree  saw  a  black  horse  suddenly  come  out 
of  the  Camband  Sewer. 

"  '  Oh,  look ! '  says  one  of  them,  '  here's  a  fine 
horse,  blest  if  I  don't  mount  him/  and  the  horse 
let  him  get  on  quietly  enough. 


42  MEMOIRS   Op  MISTRAL 

"  '  Why  there's  room  for  me,  too,'  says  another, 
and  up  he  got. 

"'And  me,  too,'  says  a  third.  He  jumped  up 
also,  and  as  one  by  one  they  mounted,  that  horse's 
back  became  longer  and  longer,  till,  if  you'll 
believe  it,  there  were  a  dozen  of  those  young  fools 
on  this  same  horse !  Then  a  thirteenth  cries  out : 
'  Lord — Holy  Virgin  and  sainted  Joseph,  I 
believe  there's  room  for  another ' !  But  at  these 
words  the  beast  vanished,  and  our  twelve  riders 
found  themselves  on  their  feet  looking  sheepish 
enough,  I  can  tell  you.  Lucky  for  them  that  the 
last  one  had  pronounced  the  names  of  the  saints, 
for  otherwise  that  evil  beast  would  have  carried 
them  straight  to  the  devil. 

"And  then,  O  Lord,  there  were  the  witch-cats. 
Why  yes,  those  black  cats  they  called  the  '  Mascots,' 
for  they  were  said  to  make  money  come  to  the 
house  where  they  lived.  You  knew  the  old  Tar- 
lavelle,  eh  ? — she  who  left  such  a  pile  of  crowns 
when  she  died — well,  she  had  a  black  cat,  and  she 
took  care  to  give  it  the  first  helping  at  every 
meal.  And  there  was  my  poor  uncle,  going  to 
bed  one  night  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  what  does 
he  see  but  a  black  cat  crossing  the  road.  He, 
thinking  no  harm,  threw  a  stone  at  the  cat — when, 
lo  and  behold,  the  beast  turned  round,  gave  him  an 


THE  MAGI   KINGS  43 

evil  look,  and  hissed  out, '  Thou  hast  hit  Robert ! ' 
Strange  things  !  To-day  they  seem  like  dreams, 
nobody  ever  mentions  them—  yet  there  must  have 
been  something  in  it  all,  or  why  should  every  one 
have  been  so  afraid.  Eh,  and  there  were  many 
others,"  continued  Renaude,  "awful  strange  crea- 
tures like  the  Night-witch,  who  seated  herself  on 
your  chest  and  squeezed  the  breath  out  of  you. 
And  the  Wier-wolf,  and  the  Jack  o'  Lantern,  and 
the  Fantastic  Sprite.  Why,  just  fancy,  one  day — I 
might  have  been  eleven  years  old — I  was  returning 
from  the  catechism  class  when,  passing  near  a 
poplar,  I  heard  a  laugh  coming  from  the  very  top 
of  the  tree.  I  looked  up,  and  there  was  the 
Fantastic  Sprite  grinning  between  the  leaves  and 
making  me  signs  to  climb  up.  Why,  I  wouldn't 
have  gone  up  that  tree  for  a  hundred  onions — I 
took  to  my  heels  and  ran  as  if  I'd  gone  crazy. 
Oh,  I  can  tell  you,  when  we  talked  of  these  things 
round  the  hearth  at  nights  not  one  of  us  would 
have  gone  outside.  Poor  children,  what  a  fright 
we  were  in.  But  we  soon  grew  up,  and  then  came 
the  time  for  lovers,  and  the  lads  would  call  to  us 
to  come  out  and  walk  or  dance  by  the  moonlight. 
At  first  we  refused  for  fear  we  might  meet  the 
White  Hen  or  the  Fantastic  Sprite,  but  when 
they  called  us  '  sillies '  to  believe  such  blind 


44  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

grandmother's  tales,  and  said  they'd  scare  away 
the  hobgoblins — boys  of  that  age  have  got  no  sense, 
and  make  you  laugh  with  their  nonsense  even 
against  your  will — why,  gradually  we  ceased  to 
think  so  much  of  it.  For  one  thing  we  soon  had 
too  much  to  do.  Why,  I  had  eleven  children, 
who  all  turned  out  well,  thank  God,  besides  others 
I  looked  after.  When  one  is  not  rich  and  has  all 
thooe  brats  to  do  for,  one's  hands  are  pretty  full, 
I  can  tell  you." 

'  Well,   Xante  Renaude,  may  the    good  God 
protect  you." 

"  Oh,  now  I  am  well  ripened — let  Him  pluck 
me  as  soon  as  He  will."  And  with  her  big  hand- 
kerchief the  old  body  flicks  at  the  flies,  and 
nodding  her  head,  quietly  leans  back  and  con- 
tinues to  drink  in  the  sunshine. 


CHAPTER  IV 

NATURE'S  SCHOOL 

AT  eight  years  old  I  was  sent  to  school  with  a 
little  blue  satchel  to  carry  my  books  and  my  lunch. 
Not  before,  thank  God,  for  in  all  that  touched  my 
inner  development  and  the  education  and  tempera- 
ment of  my  young  poet's  soul,  I  certainly  learnt 
far  more  through  the  games  and  frolics  of  my 
country  childhood  than  by  the  tiresome  repetition 
of  the  school  routine. 

In  our  time,  the  dream  of  all  youngsters  who 
went  to  school  was  to  play  truant,  once  at  least,  in 
a  thoroughly  successful  manner.  To  have  accom- 
plished this  was  to  be  regarded  by  the  others  as 
on  a  par  with  brigands,  pirates,  and  other  heroes. 

In  Provence  it  is  the  custom  for  such  an  exploit 
to  be  carried  out  by  running  away  to  a  far  and 
unknown  country,  being  careful  to  confide  the 
project  to  no  one.  The  time  chosen  by  the  young 
Proven£al  for  this  adventure  is  when  he  has,  by 
some  fault,  or  the  sad  error  of  disobedience,  good 
cause  to  fear  that  on  his  return  home  he  will  be 
welcomed  rather  too  warmly  ! 


46  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

When,  therefore,  this  fate  looms  over  some 
unlucky  fellow,  he  just  gives  school  and  parents 
the  slip,  and  defying  consequences,  off  he  goes  on 
his  travels  with  a  "  Long  live  liberty ! " 

Oh,  the  delight,  the  joy,  at  that  age  to  feel 
complete  master  of  oneself,  and  the  bridle  hanging 
loose,  to  roam  where  fancy  beckons,  away  into  the 
blue  distance,  down  into  the  swamp,  or  may  be 
up  to  the  mountain  heights  ! 

But — after  a  while  comes  hunger.  Playing 
truant  in  the  summer  time,  that  evil  is  not  so 
serious.  There  are  fields  of  broad  beans,  fair 
orchards  with  their  crops  of  apples,  pears,  and 
peaches,  cherry-trees  delighting  the  eye,  fig-trees 
offering  their  ripe  fruit,  and  bulging  melons  that 
cry  out  "  Eat  me."  And  then  those  lovely  vines, 
the  stock  of  the  golden  grape.  Ah  ! — I  fancy  I 
can  see  them  yet ! 

Of  course  if  the  game  was  played  in  winter,  things 
were  not  quite  so  smiling.  Some  young  scamps 
would  boldly  visit  farms'  where  they  were  unknown 
and  ask  for  food,  and  some  again,  more  un- 
scrupulous rascals,  would  steal  the  eggs  and  even 
take  the  stale  nest-egg,  drinking  and  gulping 
it  down  with  relish.  Others,  however,  were  of 
prouder  stuff ;  they  had  not  run  away  from  home 
and  school  for  any  misdemeanour,  but  either 


NATURE'S  SCHOOL  47 

from  pure  thirst  of  independence  or  because  of 
some  injustice  which,  having  deeply  wounded 
the  heart,  made  the  victim  flee  man  and  his  habita- 
tion. These  would  pass  the  nights  sleeping 
amidst  the  corn,  in  the  fields  of  millet,  sometimes 
under  a  bridge  or  in  some  shed  or  straw-stack. 
When  hungry  they  gathered  from  the  hedges 
and  the  fields  mulberries,  sloes,  almonds  left  on 
the  trees,  or  little  bunches  of  grapes  from  the  wild 
vine.  They  did  not  even  object  to  the  fruit  of 
the  wych-elm,  which  they  called  white  bread,  nor 
unearthed  onions;,  choke-pears,  beech-nuts,  nor  at 
a  pinch  to  acorns.  For  to  all  these  truants  each 
day  was  a  glorious  game,  and  every  step  a  bound 
of  delight.  What  need  of  companions  when  all 
the  beasts  and  insects  were  your  playfellows  ? 
You  could  understand  what  they  were  after, 
what  they  said,  what  they  thought,  and  they 
appeared  to  understand  you  quite  as  well. 

You  caught  a  grasshopper  and  examined  her 
little  shining  wings.  Very  gently  you  stroked  her 
with  your  hand  to  make  her  sing,  then  sent  her 
away  with  a  straw  in  her  mouth.  Or,  resting  full 
length  on  a  bank,  you  find  a  lady-bird  climbing 
up  your  finger,  and  at  once  you  sing  to  her : 

"  Lady-bird,  fly, 
Be  off  to  the  school,"  &c. 


48  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

and  as  the  lady-bird  stretches  her  wings  she 
replies  : 

"Go  home  yourself — I  am  quite  happy  where  I 
am." 

Then  a  praying-mantis  kneels  before  you  and 

you  ask  : 

"  Praying-mantis,  art  so  wise, 
Know  you  where  the  sly  fox  lies  ?  " 

The  mantis  raises  a  long  thin  arm  and  points  to 
the  mountains. 

A  lizard  sits  warming  himself  in  the  sun  and 
you  address  him  with  the  correct  formula : 

"  Little  lizard,  be  my  friend 
'Gainst  all  snakes  that  bite  and  bend, 
Then  I'll  give  you  grains  of  salt 
When  before  my  house  you  halt." 

"  Your  house  !  And  when  will  you  be  back 
there  ?  "  the  lizard  says  as  plainly  as  you  could 
yourself,  and,  with  a  whisk,  disappears  in  his 
hole. 

Should  you  meet  a  snail,  you  greet  him  in  this 

fashion  : 

"  Oh,  snail  with  one  eye, 

Your  horns  let  me  spy, 
-  Or  the  blacksmith  I'll  call 

To  smash  house  and  all." 

It  was  home,  always  home,  to  which  every  one 
harked  back ;  till  at  last,  after  having  destroyed 


NATURE'S   SCHOOL  49 

sufficient  nests — and  made  sufficient  holes  in 
nether  garments— being  weary  of  pipes  made  from 
barley-straws  and  of  whistles  made  of  willow 
twigs,  besides  having  set  one's  teeth  on  edge  with 
green  apples  and  other  sour  fruit,  suddenly  the 
truant  is  seized  with  home-sickness,  a  great  longing 
at  the  heart  turns  the  feet  homewards  and  lowers 
the  once  proud  head. 

Being  of  true  Provengal  stock,  I  also  must 
needs  make  my  escapade  before  I  had  been  three 
months  at  school.  It  happened  thus. 

Three  or  four  young  rascals,  who,  under  pretext 
of  cutting  grass  or  collecting  wood,  idled  away  the 
livelong  day,  came  to  meet  me  one  morning  as 
I  set  out  for  school  at  Maillane. 

"  You  little  simpleton,  what  do  you  want  to 
go  to  school  f or  ?  "  said  they.  "  Boxed  in  all 
day  between  four  walls,  punished  for  this  or  that, 
your  fingers  rapped  with  a  ruler  !  Bah  !  come  and 
play  with  us !  " 

Ah  me  !  how  crystal  clear  the  water  ran  in  the 
brook  ;  how  the  larks  sang  up  there  in  the  blue  ; 
the  cornflowers,  the  iris,  the  poppies,  the  rose- 
campions,  how  fair  they  bloomed  in  the  sunshine 
which  played  on  the  green  meadows.  So  I  said 
to  myself  : 

"  School !     Well,  that  can  wait  till  to-morrow." 

D 


50  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

And  then,  with  trousers  turned  up,  off  we  went 
to  the  water.  We  paddled,  we  splashed,  we  fished 
for  tadpoles,  we  made  mud  pies,  and  then  smeared 
our  bare  little  legs  with  black  slime  to  make 
ourselves  boots  !  Afterwards,  in  the  dust  of  some 
hollow  by  the  wayside,  we  played  at  soldiers : 

Rataplan,  Rataplan, 
I'm  a  military  man,  &c. 

What  fun  it  was  !  no  king's  children  were  our 
equals.  And  then  with  the  bread  and  provisions 
in  my  satchel,  we  had  a  fine  picnic  on  the  grass. 

But  all  such  joys  must  end.  The  schoolmaster 
informed  against  me,  and  behold  me  arraigned 
before  my  sire's  judgment-seat : 

"  Now  hear  me,  Frederic,  the  next  time  you  miss 
school  to  go  off  paddling  in  the  brook,  I  will  break 
a  stick  over  your  back — do  not  forget." 

In  spite  of  this,  three  days  after,  through  sheer 
thoughtlessness,  I  again  cut  school  and  went  off 
to  the  brook. 

Did  he  spy  on  me,  or  was  it  mere  chance  that 
brought  him  that  way  ?  Just  as  I  and  my  boon 
companions  were  splashing  about  with  naked 
legs,  at  a  few  paces  from  us  suddenly  I  behold 
my  sire.  My  heart  gave  one  bound. 

He  stood  still  and  called  to  me  : 


NATURE'S   SCHOOL  51 

"  So  that  is  it ! .  .  .  You  know  what  I  promised 
you  ?  Very  well,  I  shall  be  ready  for  you  this 
evening." 

Nothing  more,  and  he  went  on  his  way. 

My  good  father,  good  as  the  Blessed  Bread,  had 
never  given  me  even  a  slap,  but  he  had  a  loud 
voice  and  a  rough  way  of  speaking,  and  I  feared 
him  as  I  did  fire. 

"Ha!"  I  said  to  myself,  "this  time,  but 
this  time,  he  will  kill  you.  Assuredly  he  has  gone 
to  prepare  the  rod." 

My  companions,  little  scamps,  snapped  their 
fingers  with  glee,  and  cried  : 

"  Aha  !  aha  !  what  a  drubbing  you'll  get ! 
Aha  !  aha  !  on  your  bare  back  too  !  " 

"  All  is  up,"  I  said  to  myself.  "  I  must  be  off — 
I  must  run  away." 

So  I  went.  As  well  as  I  remember  I  took  a 
road  that  led  right  up  to  the  Crau  d'Eyragues. 
But  at  that  time,  poor  little  wretch,  I  hardly 
knew  where  I  was  going,  and  after  walking  for 
an  hour  or  so,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  gone  far 
enough  to  have  arrived  in  America. 

The  sun  began  to  go  down.  I  was  tired,  and 
frightened  too.  "It  is  getting  late,"  I  thought, 
"  and  where  shall  I  find  my  supper  ?  I  must  go 
and  beg  at  some  farm." 


52  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

So,  turning  out  of  the  road,  I  discreetly  ap- 
proached a  little  white  farm-house.  It  had  almost 
a  welcoming  air,  with  its  pig-sties,  manure-heap, 
well,  and  vine  arbour,  all  protected  from  the  east 
wind  by  a  cypress  hedge. 

Very  timidly  I  approached  the  doorstep,  and, 
looking  in,  saw  an  old  body  stirring  some  soup. 
She  was  dirty  and  dishevelled;  to  eat  what  she 
cooked  one  required  indeed  the  sauce  of  hunger. 
Unhooking  the  pot  from  the  chain  on  which  it 
swung,  the  old  woman  placed  it  on  the  kitchen 
floor,  and  with  a  long  spoon  she  poured  the  soup 
over  some  slices  of  bread. 

"  I  see,  granny,  you  are  making  some  soup," 
I  remarked  pleasantly. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  curtly ;  "  and  where  do 
you  come  from,  young  one  ?  " 

"  I  come  from  Maillane.  I  have  run  away, 
and — I  should  be  much  obliged  if  you  would 
give  me  something  to  eat." 

"  Oh,  indeed,"  replied  the  ugly  old  dame  in 
growling  tones.  "  Then  just  sit  you  down  on 
the  doorstep  and  not  on  my  chairs  !  " 

I  obeyed  by  winding  myself  up  into  a  ball  on 
the  lowest  step. 

"  If  you  please,  what  is  this  place  called  ?  "  I 
asked  meekly. 


NATURE'S   SCHOOL  53 

"  Papeligosse." 

"  Papeligosse  ?  "   I  repeated  in  dismay. 

For  in  Provence  when  they  wish,  in  joke,  to 
convey  to  children  the  idea  of  a  far  distant  land, 
they  call  it  Papeligosse.  At  that  age  I  believed 
in  Papeligosse,  in  Zibe-Zoube,  in  Gafe-1'Ase,  and 
other  visionary  regions  as  firmly  as  in  my  Pater- 
noster. So  when  the  old  woman  uttered  that 
magic  word,  a  cold  shiver  went  down  my  back, 
realising  myself  so  far  from  home. 

"  Ah  yes,"  she  continued  as  she  finished  her 
cooking,  "  and  you  must  know  that  in  this  country 
the  lazy  ones  get  nothing  to  eat — so  if  you  want 
any  soup,  my  boy,  you  must  work  for  it." 

"Oh,  I  will— what  shall  I  do?"  I  inquired 
eagerly. 

"  This  is  what  we  will  do,  you  and  I,  both  of  us. 
We  will  stand  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  have  a 
jumping  match.  The  one  who  jumps  farthest 
shall  have  a  good  bowl  of  soup — the  other  shall 
eat  with  his  eyes  only — understand,  eh  ?  " 

I  agreed  readily,  not  only  proud  that  I  should 
earn  my  supper  and  amuse  myself  into  the  bargain, 
but  also  feeling  no  doubts  as  to  the  result  of  the 
match;  it  was  a  pity  indeed  if  I  could  not  jump 
farther  than  a  rickety  old  body. 

So,  feet  together,  we  placed  ourselves  at  the 


54  MEMOIRS  OF   MISTRAL 

foot  of  the  staircase,  which  in  all  farm-houses 
stands  opposite  the  front  door,  close  to  the 
threshold. 

"  Now,"  cried  the  old  woman,  "  one,"  and  she 
swung  her  arms  as  though  to  get  a  good  start. 

"  Two — three,"  I  added,  and  then  sprang  with 
all  my  might,  triumphantly  clearing  the  threshold. 
But  that  cunning  old  body  had  only  pretended 
to  spring ;  quick  as  light  she  shut  the  door,  and 
drawing  the  bolt  cried  out  to  me  : 

"  Little  rascal — go  back  to  your  parents — they 
will  be  getting  anxious — come,  off  with  you  !  " 

There  I  stood,  unlucky  urchin,  feeling  like  a 
basket  with  the  bottom  knocked  out.  What 
was  I  to  do  ?  Go  home  ?  Not  for  a  kingdom. 
I  could  picture  my  father  ready  to  receive  me, 
the  menacing  rod  in  his  hand.  To  add  to  my 
trouble,  it  was  getting  dark,  and  I  no  longer  knew 
the  road  by  which  I  had  come.  I  resolved  to 
trust  in  God. 

Behind  the  farm,  a  path  led  up  the  hill  between 
two  high  banks.  I  started  off,  regardless  of  risks. 
"  Onward,  Frederic,"  said  I. 

After  clambering  up  the  steep  path,  then  down 
and  up  again,  I  felt  tired  out.  It  was  hardly 
surprising  at  eight  years  old,  and  with  an  empty 
stomach  since  midday.  At  last  I  came  on  a 


NATURE'S   SCHOOL  55 

broken-down  cottage  in  a  neglected  vineyard. 
They  must  have  set  it  on  fire  at  one  time,  for  the 
cracked  walls  were  black  with  smoke.  There 
were  no  doors  or  windows,  and  the  beams  only 
held  up  half  the  roof,  which  had  fallen  in  on  one 
side.  It  might  have  been  the  abode  of  a  night- 
mare ! 

But — "  needs  must "  as  they  say  when  there 
is  no  choice.  So,  worn  out,  and  half  dead  with 
sleep,  I  climbed  on  to  one  of  the  beams,  laid  down, 
and  in  a  twinkling  fell  sound  asleep. 

I  don't  know  how  long  I  lay  there,  but  in  the 
middle  of  a  leaden  slumber  I  became  aware  of 
three  men  sitting  round  a  charcoal  fire,  laughing 
and  talking. 

"  Am  I  dreaming  ?  "  I  asked  myself  in  my  sleep. 
"  Am  I  dreaming,  or  is  this  real  ?  " 

But  the  heavy  sense  of  well-being,  into  which 
drowsiness  plunges  one,  prevented  any  feeling 
of  fear,  and  I  continued  to  sleep  placidly. 

I  suppose  that  at  last  the  smoke  began  to  suffo- 
cate me,  and  on  a  sudden  I  started  up  with  a  cry 
of  fright.  Since  I  did  not  die  then  and  there  of 
sheer  horror,  I  am  convinced  I  shall  never  die. 

Imagine  three  wild  gypsy  faces,  all  turned  on 
you  at  the  same  moment — and  with  oh,  such  eyes  ! 
such  awful  eyes  ! 


56  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

"  Don't  kill  me  !  don't  kill  me  !  "  I  shrieked. 

The  gypsies,  who  had  been  almost  as  startled  as 
I,  burst  out  laughing,  and  one  of  them  said  : 

"  You  young  scamp,  you  can  boast  that  you 
gave  us  a  nice  scare  !  " 

When  I  found  they  could  laugh  and  talk  like 
myself,  I  took  courage,  and  noticed  at  the  same 
time  what  a  good  smell  came  from  their  pot. 

They  made  me  get  down  from  my  perch  and 
demanded  where  I  came  from,  to  whom  I  belonged, 
why  I  was  there,  and  a  string  of  other  questions. 

Satisfied  at  length  of  my  identity,  one  of  the 
robbers — for  they  were  robbers — said  to  me : 

"  Since  you  are  playing  truant,  I  suppose  you 
are  hungry.  Here,  eat  this." 

And  he  threw  me  a  shoulder  of  lamb,  half  cooked, 
as  though  I  were  a  dog.  I  then  noticed  they  had 
just  been  roasting  a  young  lamb,  stolen  probably 
from  some  fold. 

After  we  had,  in  this  primitive  fashion,  all 
made  a  good  meal,  the  three  men  rose,  collected 
their  traps  and  in  low  tones  took  counsel  together  ; 
then  one  of  them  turned  to  me  : 

"  Look  here,  youngster,  since  you  are  a  bit  of 
a  brick  we  don't  want  to  harm  you,  but  all  the 
same,  we  can't  have  you  spying  which  way  we  go, 
so  we  are  going  to  pop  you  into  that  barrel  there. 


NATURE'S   SCHOOL  57 

When  the  day  comes  you  can  call  out  and  the  first 
passer-by  can  release  you — if  he  likes  !  " 

"  All  right,"  I  said  submissively.  "  Put  me 
into  the  barrel."  To  tell  the  truth  I  was  very 
glad  to  get  off  so  cheaply. 

In  the  corner  of  the  hovel  stood  a  battered 
cask,  used,  doubtless,  at  the  time  of  the  vintage 
for  fermenting  the  grape. 

They  caught  hold  of  me  by  the  seat  of  my 
trousers,  and  pop  !  into  the  cask  I  went.  So 
there  I  found  myself,  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
in  a  cask,  on  the  floor  of  a  cottage  in  ruins. 

I  crouched  down,  poor  little  wretch,  rolling 
myself  up  like  a  ball,  and  while  waiting  for  the 
dawn  I  said  my  prayers  in  low  tones  to  scare  the 
evil  spirits. 

But — imagine  my  dismay  when  suddenly  I 
heard,  in  the  dark,  something  prowling  and 
snorting,  round  my  cask  !  I  held  my  breath  as 
though  I  were  dead,  and  committed  myself  to 
God  and  the  sainted  Virgin.  Still  I  heard  it, 
that  dread  something  going  round  and  round 
me,  sniffing  and  pushing — what  the  devil  was 
it  ?  My  heart  thumped  and  knocked  like  a 
hammer. 

But  to  finish  my  tale :  at  last  the  day  com- 
menced to  dawn,  and  the  pattering  that  caused 


58  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

me  such  fear  seemed  to  me  to  be  growing  a  little 
more  distant.  Very  cautiously  I  peeped  out  by 
means  of  the  bunghole,  and  there,  not  far  off,  I 
beheld — a  wolf,  my  good  friends — nothing  short 
of  a  wolf  the  size  of  a  donkey  !  An  enormous 
wolf  with  eyes  that  glared  like  two  lamps. 

Attracted  by  the  odour  of  the  cooked  lamb  he 
had  come  there,  and  finding  nothing  but  bones, 
the  close  proximity  of  a  Christian  child's  tender 
flesh  filled  him  with  hungry  longing.  But  the 
curious  thing  was  that,  far  from  feeling  fear  at  the 
sight  of  this  beast,  I  experienced  a  great  relief. 
The  fact  was,  I  had  so  dreaded  some  nocturnal 
apparition  that  the  sight  of  even  such  a  wolf 
gave  me  courage. 

"  All  very  fine,"  I  thought,  "  but  I've  not  done 
with  him  yet.  If  that  beast  finds  out  that  the 
cask  is  open  at  the  top,  he  will  jump  in  also  and 
crunch  me  up  with  one  bite  of  those  teeth.  I 
must  think  of  a  plan  to  outwit  him ! " 

Some  movement  I  made  caught  the  sharp  ear 
of  the  wolf,  and  with  one  bound  he  was  back  at 
the  cask,  prowling  round  and  lashing  the  sides 
with  his  long  tail.  Promptly  I  passed  my  small 
hand  through  the  bunghole,  seized  hold  of  that 
tail,  and  pulling  it  inside,  grasped  it  tightly  with 
both  hands.  The  wolf,  as  though  he  had  five 


NATURE'S   SCHOOL  59 

hundred  devils  after  him,  started  off,  dragging 
the  cask  over  rocks  and  stones,  through  fields 
and  vineyards.  We  must  have  rolled  together 
over  all  the  ups  and  downs  of  Eyragues,  of  Lagoy, 
and  of  Bourbourel. 

"  Oh  mercy !  pity !  dear  Virgin,  dear  Saint 
Joseph,"  I  cried  out.  "  Where  is  this  wolf  taking 
me  ?  And  if  the  cask  breaks  he  will  gobble  me 
up  in  a  moment." 

Then  all  of  a  sudden,  crash  went  the  cask — 
the  tail  escaped  from  my  hands,  and — far  off,  quite 
in  the  distance,  I  saw  my  wolf  escaping  at  a  gallop. 
On  looking  round,  what  was  my  astonishment 
to  find  myself  close  to  the  New  Bridge,  on  the 
road  that  leads  to  Maillane  from  Saint-Remy, 
not  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  from  our 
farm.  The  barrel  must  have  knocked  up  against 
the  parapet  of  the  bridge  and  come  to  pieces  in 
that  way. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  after  such 
adventures  the  thought  of  the  rod  in  my  father's 
hand  no  longer  possessed  any  terrors  for  me,  and 
running  as  though  the  wolf  were  after  me  I  soon 
found  myself  at  home. 

At  the  back  of  the  farm-house  I  saw  in  the  field 
my  father  ploughing  a  long  furrow.  He  leant 
against  the  handle  and  called  to  me  laughing: 


60  MEMOIRS  OF  MISTRAL 

"  Ha,  ha,  my  fine  fellow,  run  in  quick  to  your 
mother — she  has  not  slept  a  wink  all  night !  " 

And  I  ran  in  to  my  mother. 

Omitting  nothing,  I  related  to  my  parents  all 
my  thrilling  adventures,  but  when  I  came  to  the 
story  of  the  robbers  and  the  cask  and  the 
enormous  wolf  : 

"  Ah,  little  simpleton,"  they  cried,  "  why  it 
was  fright  made  you  dream  all  that !  " 

It  was  useless  my  assuring  them  again  and 
again  that  it  was  true  as  the  Gospel ;  I  could 
never  get  any  one  to  believe  me. 


MISTRAL  IN  1864. 


CHAPTER  V 
AT  ST.  MICHEL  DE  FRIGOLET 

WHEN  my  parents  found  that  my  whole  heart 
was  set  upon  play  and  that  nothing  could  keep 
me  from  idling  away  the  livelong  day  in  the  fields 
with  the  village  boys,  they  came  to  the  stern 
resolve  to  send  me  away  to  a  boarding-school. 

So  one  morning  a  small  folding-bed,  a  deal  box 
to  hold  my  papers,  together  with  a  bristly  pig- 
skin trunk  containing  my  books  and  belongings, 
were  placed  in  the  farm  cart,  and  I  departed  with 
a  heavy  heart,  accompanied  by  my  mother  to 
console  me,  and  followed  by  our  big  dog  "  Le  Juif," 
for  St.  Michel  de  Frigolet. 

It  was  an  old  monastery,  situated  in  the  Montag- 
nette,  about  two  hours'  distance  from  the  farm, 
between  Graveson,  Tarascon,  and  Barbentane. 
At  the  Revolution  the  property  of  Saint -Michel 
had  been  sold  for  a  little  paper  money,  and  the 
deserted  monastery,  spoiled  of  its  goods,  unin- 
habited and  solitary,  remained  desolate  up  there 
in  the  midst  of  the  wilds,  open  to  the  four  winds 
and  to  the  wild  beasts.  Occasionally  smugglers 


62  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

used  it  as  a  powder  factory  ;  shepherds  as  a  shelter 
for  their  sheep  in  the  rain ;  or  gamblers  from 
neighbouring  towns — Graveson,  Maillane,  Bar- 
bentane,  Chateau-Renard — resorted  there  to  hide 
and  to  es'cape  the  police.  And  there,  by  the  light 
of  a  few  pale  candles,  while  gold  pieces  clinked  to 
the  shuffling  of  cards,  oaths  and  blasphemies 
echoed  under  the  arches  where  so  recently  psalms 
had  been  raised.  Their  game  finished,  the  liber- 
tines then  ate,  drank  and  made  merry  until  dawn. 

About  the  year  1832  some  mendicant  friars 
established  themselves  there.  They  replaced  the 
bell  in  the  old  Roman  tower,  and  on  Sunday 
they  set  it  ringing. 

But  they  rang  in  vain,  no  one  mounted  the  hill 
for  the  services,  for  no  one  had  faith  in  them. 
And  the  Duchesse  De  Berry,  having  just  at  this  time 
come  to  Provence  to  incite  the  Carlists  against 
the  King,  Louis-Philippe,  I  remember  that  it 
was  whispered  that  these  fugitive  brothers,  under 
their  black  gabardines,  were  in  reality  nothing 
but  soldiers  (or  bandits)  plotting  for  some  doubtful 
intrigue. 

It  was  after  the  departure  of  these  brothers 
that  a  worthy  native  of  Cavaillon,  by  name  Mon- 
sieur Donnat,  bought  the  Convent  of  Saint -Michel 
on  credit  and  started  there  a  school  for  boys. 


AT   ST.  MICHEL   DE   FRIGOLET     63 

He  was  an  old  bachelor,  yellow  and  swarthy 
in  face,  with  lank  hair,  flat  nose,  a  large  mouth, 
and  big  teeth.  He  wore  a  long  black  frock-coat 
and  bronzed  shoes.  Very  devout  he  was  and  as 
poor  as  a  church  mouse,  but  he  devised  a  means 
for  starting  his  school  and  collecting  pupils 
without  a  penny  in  his  purse. 

For  example,  he  would  go  to  Graveson,  Tarascon, 
Barbentane,  or  Saint-Pierre  looking  up  the  farmer 
who  had  sons. 

"  I  wish  to  tell  you,"  he  would  begin,  "  that  I 
have  opened  a  school  at  St.  Michel  de  Frigolet. 
You  have  now,  at  your  door,  an  excellent  institu- 
tion for  instructing  your  boys  and  helping  them 
to  pass  their  examinations." 

"  That  is  all  very  fine  for  rich  people,  sir,"  the 
father  of  the  family  would  answer,  "  but  we  are 
poor  folk,  and  can't  afford  all  that  education  for 
our  boys.  They  can  always  learn  enough  at  home 
to  work  on  the  land." 

"  Look  here,"  says  Monsieur  Donnat,  "  there 
is  nothing  better  than  a  good  education.  You 
need  not  worry  about  payment.  You  will  give 
me  every  year  so  many  loads  of  wheat  and  so 
many  barrels  of  wine  or  casks  of  oil — in  that  way 
we  will  arrange  matters." 

The  good  farmer  gladly  agreed  his  boy  should 


64  MEMOIRS  OF  MISTRAL 

go  to  St.  Michel  de  Frigolet.  Monsieur  Donnat  then 
went  on  to  a  shopkeeper  and  began  in  this  wise : 

"  A  fine  little  boy  that  is  of  yours  ! — and  he 
looks  wide  awake  too  !  Now  you  don't  want  to 
make  a  pounder  of  pepper  of  him,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Ah,  sir,  if  we  could  we  would  give  him  a  little 
education,  but  colleges  are  so  expensive,  and  when 
one  isn't  rich " 

"  Are  you  on  the  look-out  for  a  college  ? " 
exclaimed  Monsieur  Donnat.  "  Why,  send  him  to 
my  school,  up  there  at  Saint-Michel,  we  will  teach 
him  a  little  Latin  and  make  a  man  of  him  !  And 
— as  to  payment,  we  will  take  toll  of  the  shop. 
You  will  have  in  me  another  customer,  and  a  good 
customer,  I  can  tell  you  !  " 

And  without  further  question  the  shopkeeper 
confided  his  son  to  Monsieur  Donnat. 

In  this  way  Monsieur  Donnat  gathered  into  lu's 
school  some  forty  small  boys  of  the  neighbour- 
hood, myself  among  them.  Out  of  the  number, 
some  parents,  like  my  own,  paid  in  money,  but 
quite  three-fourths  paid  in  kind — provisions,  goods, 
or  their  labour.  In  one  word,  Monsieur  Donnat, 
before  the  Republic,  social  and  democratic,  had 
easily,  and  without  any  hubbub,  solved  the  prob- 
lem of  the  Bank  of  Exchange,  a  measure  which 
the  famous  Proudhon  in  1848  preached  in  vain. 


AT  ST.   MICHEL  DE   FRIGOLET     65 

One  of  the  scholars  I  remember  well.  I  think 
he  was  from  Nimes,  and  we  called  him  Agnel; 
he  was  rather  like  a  girl,  gentle  and  pretty,  with 
something  sad  in  his  look.  Our  parents  came 
often  to  see  us  and  brought  us  cakes  and  other 
good  things.  But  Agnel  appeared  to  have  no 
relations,  no  one  came  to  see  him  and  he  never 
spoke  of  those  belonging  to  him.  Only  on  one 
occasion  had  a  tall  strange  gentleman  of  haughty 
and  mysterious  aspect  appeared  at  the  convent 
and  inquired  for  Agnel.  The  interview,  which 
was  private,  had  lasted  for  about  half  an  hour,  after 
which  the  tall  gentleman  had  departed  and  never 
reappeared.  This  gave  rise  to  the  conjecture  that 
Agnel  was  a  child  of  superior  though  illegitimate 
birth,  being  brought  up  in  hiding  at  Saint-Michel. 
I  lost  sight  of  him  completely  on  leaving. 

Our  instructors  consisted,  to  begin  with,  of  our 
master,  the  worthy  Monsieur  Donnat,  who,  when 
at  home,  took  the  lower  classes,  but  half  the  time 
he  was  away  gleaning  pupils.  Then  there  were 
two  or  three  poor  devils,  old  seminarists,  who, 
having  thrown  cap  and  gown  to  the  winds,  were 
well  content  to  earn  a  few  crowns,  besides  being 
well  housed,  fed  and  washed ;  we  boasted  also  a 
priestling,  Monsieur  Talon  by  name,  who  said 
Mass  for  us  j  and,  finally,  a  little  hunchback, 


66  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

Monsieur  Lavagne,  the  professor  of  music.  For 
our  cook  we  had  a  negro,  and  to  wait  at  table  and 
do  the  washing  a  woman  of  Tarascon,  some  thirty 
years  old.  To  complete  this  happy  family  there 
were  the  worthy  parents  of  Monsieur  Donnat— 
the  father,  poor  old  chap,  coifed  in  a  red  cap,  and 
assisted  by  the  donkey,  was  employed  to  fetch 
the  provisions  ;  and  the  old  white-capped  dame 
acted  as  barber  to  us,  when  necessary. 

In  those  days  Saint-Michel  was  of  much  less 
importance  than  it  has  since  become.  There 
existed  merely  the  cloisters  of  the  old  Augustine 
monks  with  the  little  green  in  the  middle,  while 
to  the  south  in  a  small  group  rose  the  refectory, 
chapter-house,  kitchen,  stables,  and  lastly,  the 
dilapidated  Church  of  Saint-Michel.  The  walls  of 
the  latter  were  covered  with  frescoes  representing 
a  flaming  fiery  hell  of  damned  souls,  and  demons 
armed  with  pitch-forks,  taking  active  part  in  the 
deadly  combat  between  the  devil  and  the  great 
archangel. 

Outside  this  cluster  of  buildings  stood  a  small 
buttressed  chapel  dedicated  to  Our  Lady  of 
Succour,  with  a  porch  at  the  side.  Great  tufts  of 
ivy  covered  the  walls,  and  inside  it  was  decorated 
with  rich  gildings  enclosing  pictures,  attributed 
to  Mignard,  representing  the  Life  of  the  Virgin. 


AT  ST.   MICHEL   DE   FRIGOLET     67 

Queen  Anne  of  Austria,  mother  of  Louis  XIV., 
had  so  adorned  the  chapel,  in  accordance  with  a 
vow  made  to  the  Virgin  should  she  become  the 
mother  of  a  son. 

During  the  Revolution,  this  chapel,  a  real  gem 
hidden  among  the  mountains,  had  been  saved  by 
the  good  country  people,  who  piled  up  faggots  in 
front  of  the  porch,  so  hiding  the  entrance.  Here 
it  was  that  every  morning,  at  five  o'clock  in  summer 
and  six  in  winter,  we  were  taken  to  hear  Mass, 
and  here  it  was  that  with  faith,  a  real  angelic 
faith,  I  prayed — we  all  prayed.  Here  also,  on 
Sundays,  we  sang  Mass  and  vespers,  each  one 
prayer-book  in  hand ;  and  here,  on  the  great 
feast-days,  the  country  people  came  to  admire 
the  voice  of  the  little  Frederic  ;  for  I  had,  at  that 
age,  a  pretty  clear  voice  like  a  girl's.  At  the 
Elevation,  when  we  sang  motets,  it  was  I  who 
had  the  solos,  and  I  well  remember  one  in  which 
I  specially  distinguished  myself  commencing  with 
these  words  : 

O  mystery  incomprehensible, 
Great  God  Thou  art  not  loved. 

In  front  of  the  little  chapel  grew  some  nettle- 
trees,  the  sweet  blossoms  of  which,  hanging  in 
tempting  clusters,  often  lured  us  to  climb  the 
branches,  to  the  destruction  of  our  garments. 


68  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

There  was  also  a  well,  bored  and  cut  in  the  rock, 
which,  by  a  subterranean  outlet,  poured  its 
waters  down  into  a  basin,  and,  descending  further, 
watered  the  kitchen  garden.  Below  the  garden, 
at  the  entrance  of  the  valley,  grew  a  clump  of 
white  poplars,  brightening  up  the  rather  barren 
landscape. 

For  Saint-Michel  was  a  wild  solitary  spot,  the 
old  monastery  being  built  on  a  plateau  in  a  narrow 
passage  between  the  mountains,  far  from  the 
haunts  of  men,  as  the  inscription  over  the  entrance 
truly  testified  : 

"  I  fled  from  the  cities,  where  injustice  and 
vanity  reign  unchecked,  and  sought  for  solitude. 
This  is  the  place  I  have  chosen  for  my  habitation. 
Here  shall  I  find  rest." 

The  spurs  of  the  mountains  around  were  covered 
with  thyme,  rosemary,  asphodel,  box  and  lavender. 
In  some  protected  corners  grew  vines,  which 
produced,  strange  to  say,  a  vintage  of  some  renown 
— the  famous  wine  of  Frigolet.  A  few  olive-trees 
were  planted  on  the  spur  of  the  hills,  and  here 
and  there  in  the  broken  stony  ground,  rows  of 
almond-trees^  tortuous,  rugged  and  stunted.  In 
the  clefts  of  the  rocks  might  be  seen  occasional 
wild  fig-trees.  This  was  all  the  vegetation  these 
rocky  hills  could  show,  the  rest  was  only  waste 


AT  ST.   MICHEL   DE  FRIGOLET     69 

land  and  crushed  boulders.  But  how  good  it 
smelt,  this  odour  of  the  mountains,  how  intoxi- 
cating as  we  drank  it  in  at  sunrise  ! 

The  generality  of  schoolboys  are  penned  up 
in  big  cold  courtyards  between  four  walls,  but 
we  had  the  mountains  for  our  playground.  On 
Thursdays,  and  every  day  at  recreation  hours,  no 
sooner  were  we  let  out  than  we  were  off  like 
partridges,  over  valley  and  mountain,  until  the 
convent  bell  rang  out  the  recall.  No  danger  of 
our  suffering  from  dulness.  In  the  glorious 
summer  sunshine  the  ortolan  sang  afar  his 
*'  Tsi  tsi  beau";  and  we  rolled  in  the  sweet 
thyme  or  roamed  in  search  of  forgotten  almonds 
and  green  grapes  left  on  the  vines.  We  gathered 
mushrooms,  set  traps  for  the  birds,  searched  the 
ravines  for  those  fossils  called  in  all  that  country- 
side "  Saint  Stephen's  stones,"  hunted  in  the  grottos 
for  the  Golden  Goat,  and  climbed  and  tumbled 
about  till  our  parents  found  it  hardly  possible  to 
keep  us  decently  clothed  or  shod. 

Ragged  and  tattered  as  a  troop  of  young 
gypsies,  how  we  revelled  in  that  wonderful 
country  of  mountains,  gorges,  and  ravines,  with 
their  superb  Provengal  names,  so  sonorous  and 
characteristic,  they  seem  to  bear  the  impress  of 
the  genius  of  the  people.  The  "  Mourre  de  la 


70  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

Nur,"  from  whose  summit  one  could  see  the  white 
coast-line  of  the  Mediterranean,  and  where  at 
sunset  on  Saint  John's  day  we  lit  the  bonfires ; 
the  Baume  de  Y Argent,  where  formerly  they 
made  counterfeit  coin ;  the  Roque  Pied  de 
Boeuf,  on  which  was  the  mark  of  a  bull's  hoof  ; 
and  the  Roque  d'Acier,  dominating  the  Rhone, 
with  its  boats  and  rafts  as  they  float  down  the 
stream :  national  monuments  these,  of  our 
land  and  our  language,  sweet  with  the  scent  of 
thyme,  rosemary  and  lavender,  glowing  with 
colours  of  gold  and  azure.  O  Land  where  Nature 
smiles  so  divinely,  what  dreams  of  delight  thou 
didst  reveal  to  my  childhood  ! 

But  to  return  to  Saint-Michel.  We  had,  as  I 
have  said,  a  certain  chaplain,  Monsieur  Talon, 
a  little  abbe  from  Avignon.  He  was  short,  stout, 
with  a  rubicund  visage  like  a  beggar's  water- 
gourd.  The  Archbishop  of  Avignon  had  deprived 
him  of  his  benefice  because  he  was  somewhat  given 
to  tippling,  and  sent  him  to  us  to  be  out  of  the  way. 

One  Saint's  day — a  Thursday — we  had  all  been 
taken  over  to  a  neighbouring  village,  Boulbon, 
to  march  in  the  procession — the  big  boys  swung 
incense,  the  little  ones  scattered  flowers,  while 
Monsieur  Talon  was  invited,  most  imprudently 
alas !  to  be  the  officiating  priest. 


AT   ST.   MICHEL   DE   FRIGOLET    71 

All  the  town  turned  out ;  men,  women,  and  girls 
lined  the  streets,  gaily  decorated  with  flags  and 
bunting.  The  confraternities  waved  their  banners, 
the  fresh  voices  of  the  white-robed  choristers 
intoned  the  Canticles,  and  with  devout  heads 
bowed  before  the  Host ;  we  swung  our  censers 
and  strewed  our  flowers,  when  all  at  once  a 
murmur  ran  through  the  crowd,  and,  great 
heavens !  down  the  centre  of  the  street  with 
the  Host  in  his  hands,  the  golden  cope  on  his 
back,  came  poor  Monsieur  Talon  swaying  like 
a  pendulum. 

He  had  dined  at  the  presbytery,  and  had  no 
doubt  been  pressed  to  too  much  of  that  good 
vintage  of  Frigolet,  which  mounts  so  quickly  to 
the  head.  The  unhappy  man,  red  as  much  from 
shame  as  from  the  wine,  could  not  hold  himself 
straight.  Supported  by  the  deacon  and  sub-deacon, 
one  on  each  side,  he  entered  the  church  with  the 
procession.  But  finding  himself  before  the  altar, 
Monsieur  Talon  could  say  nothing  save,  "  Oremus, 
oremus,  oremus,"  and  finally  they  were  obliged 
to  remove  him  to  the  sacristy. 

The  scandal  this  caused  may  be  imagined  ! 
Less,  however,  in  that  particular  district  than 
elsewhere,  for  all  this  took  place  in  a  parish  where 
the  "  divine  bottle  "  still  celebrates  its  rites,  as 


72  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

in  the  days  of  Bacchus.  Near  Boulbon,  in  the 
mountains,  stands  an  old  chapel  dedicated  to  Saint- 
Marcellin,  and  on  the  first  day  of  June  the  men 
of  Boulbon  go  there  in  procession,  each  carrying 
a  bottle  of  wine. 

Women  are  not  allowed  to  take  part  in  this 
ceremony  for,  according  to  the  Roman  tradition, 
our  women  formerly  drank  nothing  but  water, 
and  to  reconcile  the  young  girls  to  this  ancient 
regime  they  were  told,  and  are  still  told,  that  water 
is  good  for  the  complexion. 

The  Abbe  Talon  never  failed  to  escort  us  every 
year  to  the  Procession  of  Bottles.  Having  taken 
our  places  in  the  chapel,  the  Cure  of  Boulbon, 
turning  to  the  congregation,  would  say  : 

"  My  brethren — uncork  your  bottles,  and  let 
there  be  silence  for  the  benediction." 

Then,  having  donned  a  red  cope,  he  solemnly 
chanted  the  prescribed  formula  for  the  benediction 
of  the  wine,  and  after  saying  "  Amen,"  we  all 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross  and  took  a  pull  at  our 
bottles.  The  cure  and  the  mayor,  after  clinking 
glasses  religiously  on  the  steps  of  the  altar,  also 
drank.  On  the  morrow,  when  the  fete  was  over, 
if  there  happened  to  be  a  drought  at  the  time,  the 
bust  of  Saint-Marcellin  was  borne  in  a  procession 
through  all  the  country-side,  for  the  Boulbonnais 


AT   ST.   MICHEL   DE   FRIGOLET     73 

declare  that  good  Saint-Marcellin  blesses  both 
wine  and  water. 

Another  pilgrimage,  also  of  a  festive  nature,  and 
now  quite  gone  out  of  fashion,  was  that  of  Saint  - 
Anthime.  It  took  place  at  Montagnette,  and  was 
got  up  by  the  people  of  Graveson,  when  there 
happened  to  be  a  scarcity  of  rain. 

Intoning  their  litanies  and  followed  by  a  crowd 
of  people,  their  heads  covered  with  sacks,  the 
priests  would  carry  Saint- Ant hime,  a  highly 
coloured  bust  with  prominent  eyes,  beard,  and 
mitre,  to  the  Church  of  Saint-Michel,  and  there 
the  whole  blessed  day,  the  provisions  spread  out 
on  the  fragrant  grass,  they  would  await  the  rain, 
and  devoutly  drink  the  wine  of  Frigolet.  And  I 
can  stake  my  word  that,  more  than  once,  the 
return  journey  was  made  in  a  flood  of  rain  ;  this 
may  have  been  owing  to  the  hymns,  for  our 
forefathers  had  a  saying  that,  "  Singing  brings 
the  rain." 

If,  however,  Saint -Anthime,  in  spite  of  litanies 
and  pious  libations,  did  not  manage  to  collect  the 
clouds,  then  the  jolly  penitents,  on  their  return  to 
Graveson,  would  punish  him  for  his  lack  of  power 
by  plunging  him  three  times  in  the  brook  of  Lones. 
This  curious  custom  of  dipping  the  images  of  saints 
in  water,  to  compel  them  to  send  rain,  prevailed 


74  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

in  many  districts,  at  Toulouse,  for  instance,  and 
I  have  heard  of  it  even  in  Portugal. 

Our  mothers  never  failed  to  take  us  in  our  child- 
hood to  the  church  at  Graveson,  there  to  show  us 
Saint- An thime  and  also  Beluget,  a  Jack-of-the- 
Clock,  who  struck  the  hours  in  the  belfry. 

In  concluding  my  experiences  at  Saint-Michel, 
I  recollect,  in  a  dreamlike  fashion,  that  towards  the 
end  of  my  first  year,  just  before  the  holidays, 
we  played  a  comedy  called  The  Children  of  Edward, 
by  Casimir  Delavigne.  To  me  was  allotted  the 
part  of  a  young  princess,  and  my  mother  supplied 
me  for  the  occasion  with  a  muslin  dress  which 
she  borrowed  from  a  little  girl  of  our  neighbour- 
hood. This  white  dress  was,  later,  the  cause  of  a 
pretty  little  romance,  which  I  will  tell  further  on. 

In  the  second  year  of  my  schooling,  having 
begun  to  learn  Latin,  I  wrote  to  my  parents  to 
send  me  some  books,  and  a  few  days  after,  looking 
down  into  the  valley,  behold  I  saw  mounting  the 
path  to  the  convent,  my  father  astride  on  Babache, 
the  good  old  mule  of  thirty  years'  service,  well 
known  at  all  the  market  towns  around.  For  my 
father  always  rode  Babache,  whether  to  the 
market,  or  going  the  round  of  his  fields  with  the 
long  weeding-f ork,  which  he  used  from  his  saddle, 
cutting  down  the  thistles  and  weeds. 


AT  ST.   MICHEL   DE   FRIGOLET     75 

Upon  reaching  the  convent,  my  father  emptied 
an  enormous  sack  which  he  had  brought  with 
him  on  his  saddle. 

"  See,  Frederic,"  he  called,  "  I  have  brought 
thee  a  few  books  and  some  paper  !  " 

Therewith  he  pulled  from  the  sack,  one  after 
the  other,  four  or  five  dictionaries  bound  in  parch- 
ment, a  mass  of  paper  books — "  Epitome,"  "  De 
Viris  Illustribus,"  "  Selecta  Historiae,"  "  Con- 
dones," &c. — a  huge  bottle  of  ink,  a  bundle  of 
goose  quills,  and  enough  writing  paper  to  last 
me  seven  years,  to  the  end  of  my  school  time  in 
fact.  It  was  from  Monsieur  Aubanel,  printer  at 
Avignon,  and  father  of  the  future  famous  and 
beloved  Felibre,  at  that  time  unknown  to  me,  that 
my  worthy  parent  had  with  such  promptness 
made  this  provision  for  my  education. 

At  our  pleasant  monastery  of  St.  Michel  de 
Frigolet,  however,  I  had  no  leisure  to  use  much 
writing  material.  Monsieur  Donnat,  our  master, 
for  one  reason  or  another,  was  seldom  at  his  own 
establishment,  and,  as  the  proverb  truly  says, 
"  When  the  cat  is  away,  the  mice  will  play." 
The  masters,  badly  paid,  had  always  some  excuse 
for  cutting  short  the  lesson,  and  when  the  parents 
visited  the  school,  there  was  often  no  one  to  be 
seen.  On  their  inquiring  for  the  boys,  some  of 


76  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

us  would  be  found  actively  engaged  in  repairing 
the  stone  wall  which  upheld  a  slanting  field,  while 
others  would  be  among  the  vines  revelling  in  the 
discovery  of  forgotten  little  bunches  of  grapes 
or  mushrooms.  Unfortunately,  these  circum- 
stances did  not  conduce  to  much  confidence  in 
our  headmaster.  Another  thing  which  contributed 
to  the  decline  of  the  school  was  that,  in  order  to 
increase  the  numbers,  poor  Monsieur  Donnat 
took  pupils  who  paid  little  or  nothing,  and  these 
were  not  the  boys  who  ate  least. 

The  end  came  at  last  in  a  characteristic  manner. 
We  had,  as  I  have  said,  a  negro  as  cook,  and  one 
fine  day  this  individual,  without  warning,  packed 
his  box  and  disappeared.  This  was  the  signal 
for  a  general  disbanding.  No  cook  meant  no  broth 
for  us,  and  the  professors  one  by  one  left  us  in 
the  lurch.  Monsieur  Donnat  was,  as  usual,  absent. 
His  mother,  poor  old  soul,  tried  her  hand  for  a 
day  or  two  at  boiling  potatoes,  but  one  morning 
the  old  father  Donnat  told  us  sadly :  "  My  children, 
there  are  no  more  potatoes  to  boil — you  had  better 
all  go  home  !  " 

And  at  once,  like  a  flock  of  kids  let  loose  from 
the  fold,  we  ran  off  to  gather  tufts  of  thyme 
from  the  hills  to  carry  away  as  a  remembrance  of 
this  beautiful  and  beloved  country — for  Frigolet 


AT   ST.    MICHEL   DE   FRIGOLET     77 

signifies  in  the  Proven9al  tongue  a  place  where 
thyme  abounds. 

Then,  shouldering  our  little  bundles,  by  twos 
and  threes  we  scattered  over  the  valleys  and  hills, 
some  up,  some  down,  but  none  of  us  without 
many  a  backward  look  and  sigh  of  regret  at 
departing. 

Poor  Monsieur  Donnat !  After  all  his  efforts 
in  every  direction  to  make  his  school  a  success, 
he  ended  his  days,  alas  !  in  the  almshouse. 

But  before  taking  leave  of  St.  Michel  de  Frigolet, 
I  must  add  one  word  as  to  what  became  of  the  old 
monastery.  After  being  abandoned  for  twelve 
years  it  was  bought  by  a  White  Monk,  Father 
Edmond.  In  1854  he  restored  it  under  the  Law 
of  Saint-Norbert,  the  Order  of  Premontre,  which 
had  ceased  to  exist  in  France.  Thanks  to  the 
activity,  the  preaching  and  collecting  of  this  zealous 
missioner,  the  little  monastery  fast  grew  into 
importance.  Numerous  buildings,  crowned  with 
embattled  walls,  were  added ;  a  new  church, 
magnificently  ornamented,  raised  its  three  naves, 
surmounted  by  a  couple  of  big  clock-towers.  A 
hundred  monks  or  lay  brothers  peopled  the  cells, 
and  every  Sunday  all  the  neighbourhood  mounted 
the  hillside  to  witness  the  pomp  of  the  High  Mass. 
In  1880  the  Abbot  of  the  White  Brothers  had 


78  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

become  so  popular  that  upon  the  Republic  order- 
ing the  closing  of  the  convents,  over  a  thousand 
peasants  came  up  from  the  plain  and  shut  them- 
selves in  the  monastery  to  protest  in  person  against 
the  radical  decree.  And  it  was  then  that  we  saw 
a  whole  army  in  marching  order— cavalry,  infantry, 
generals  and  captains,  with  baggage  waggons 
and  all  the  apparatus  of  war — camping  around  the 
monastery  of  St.  Michel  de  Frigolet,  seriously 
going  through  this  comic-opera  siege,  which  four 
or  five  policemen,  had  they  chosen,  could  easily 
have  brought  to  a  termination. 

Every  morning  during  this  siege,  which  lasted 
a  week,  the  country  people,  taking  their  provisions, 
posted  themselves  on  the  hills  and  spurs  of  the 
mountains  which  dominated  the  monastery,  and 
watched  from  afar  the  progress  of  events.  The 
prettiest  sight  I  well  remember  was  the  girls  from 
Barbentane,  Boulbon,  Saint-Remy,  and  Maillane, 
encouraging  the  besieged  with  enthusiastic  singing 
and  waving  of  kerchiefs  : 

Catholic  and  Provencal, 
Our  faith  shall  know  no  fear. 
With  ardour  let  us  cheer, 
Catholic  and  Provencal. 

This  was  alternated  with  invectives,  jokes,  and 
hootings  addressed  to  the  officers,  as  the  latter 


AT   ST.    MICHEL   DE   FRIGOLET     79 

marched  past  with  fierce  aspect.  Excepting  only 
the  genuine  indignation  aroused  by  the  injustice  of 
these  proceedings  in  every  heart,  it  would  be  hard 
to  find  a  more  burlesque  siege  than  this  of  Frigolet, 
which  furnished  the  subject  of  Sinnibaldi  Doria's 
"  Siege  of  Caderousse,"  and  also  a  heroic  poem 
by  the  Abbe  Faire,  neither  of  them  half  as  comic 
as  the  original.  Alphonse  Daudet,  who  had 
already  written  of  the  convent  of  the  White 
Brothers  in  his  story  "  The  Elixir  of  Brother 
Gaucher,"  also  gave  us,  in  his  last  romance  on 
Tarascon,  the  hero  Tartarin  valiantly  joining  the 
besieged  in  the  Convent  of  Saint-Michel. 


CHAPTER  VI 
AT  MONSIEUR  MILLET'S  SCHOOL 

AFTER  that  experience,  my  parents  had  to  find 
me  another  school,  not  too  distant  from  Maillane, 
nor  of  too  exalted  a  condition,  for  we  country 
people  were  not  proud.  So  they  placed  me  at  a 
school  in  Avignon,  with  Monsieur  Millet,  who  lived 
in  the  Rue  Petramale. 

This  time,  it  was  Uncle  Benoni  who  acted  as 
charioteer.  Although  Maillane  is  not  more  than 
about  six  miles  from  Avignon,  at  a  time  when  no 
railways  existed,  and  the  roads  were  broken  with 
heavy  waggon  wheels,  and  one  had  to  cross  the 
large  bed  of  the  Durance  by  ferry,  the  journey  to 
Avignon  was  a  matter  of  some  importance. 

Three  of  my  aunts,  with  my  mother,  Uncle 
Benoni,  and  myself,  all  scrambled  into  the  cart, 
in  which  was  placed  a  straw  mattress,  and  thus, 
a  goodly  caravan  load,  we  started  at  sunrise. 

I  said  advisedly  "  three  of  my  aunts."  Few 
people,  I  am  sure,  can  boast  of  as  many  aunts  as 
I  had.  There  were  a  round  dozen.  First  and 
foremost  came  the  Great-aunt  Mistrale,  then  Aunt 


AT   MONSIEUR   MILLET'S   SCHOOL    Si 

Jeanneton,  Aunt  Madelon,  Aunt  Veronique,  Aunt 
Poulinette,  Aunt  Bourdette,  Aunt  Frangoise, 
Aunt  Marie,  Aunt  Rion,  Aunt  Therese,  Aunt 
Melanie  and  Aunt  Lisa.  All  of  them,  to-day, 
are  dead  and  buried,  but  I  love  to  say  over  the 
names  of  those  good  women,  who,  like  beneficent 
fairies,  each  with  her  own  special  attraction, 
circled  round  the  cradle  of  my  childhood.  Add 
to  my  aunts  the  same  number  of  uncles,  and  then 
the  cousins,  their  numerous  progeny,  and  you 
can  form  some  idea  of  my  relations. 

Uncle  Benoni  was  my  mother's  brother  and  the 
youngest  of  the  family — dark,  thin,  loosely  made, 
with  a  turned- up  nose  and  eyes  black  as  jet.  By 
trade  he  was  a  land-surveyor,  but  he  had  the  repu- 
tation of  an  idler,  and  was  even  proud  of  it.  He 
had  a  passion  for  three  things,  however — dancing, 
music  and  jesting. 

There  was  not  a  better  dancer  in  Maillane,  nor 
one  more  amusing.  At  the  feast  of  Saint-Eloi  or 
of  Saint  e-Agathe,  when  he  and  Jesette,  the  wrestler, 
danced  the  contredanse  on  the  green  together, 
every  one  crowded  there  to  see  him  as  he  imitated 
the  pigeon's  flight.  He  played,  more  or  less  well, 
on  every  sort  of  instrument,  violin,  bassoon,  horn, 
clarinette,  but  it  was  with  the  tambour-pipes  that 
he  excelled,  In  his  youth  Benoni  had  not  his 


82  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

equal  at  serenading  the  village  beauties,  or  for 
sounding  the  revel  on  a  May  night.  And  when- 
ever there  was  a  pilgrimage  to  be  made,  either  to 
Notre  Dame  de  Lumiere,  or  to  Saint-Gent,  to 
Vaucluse  or  Les  Saintes-Maries,  Benoni  was  in- 
variably the  charioteer,  and  the  life  and  soul  of 
the  party,  ever  willing,  nay,  delighted,  to  leave  his 
own  work,  the  daily  round  of  the  quiet  home,  and 
to  be  off  for  a  jaunt. 

Parties  of  fifteen  to  twenty  young  people  in  every 
cart  would  start  off  at  dawn,  foremost  among 
them  my  uncle,  seated  on  the  shaft  acting  as  driver, 
and  keeping  up  a  ceaseless  flow  of  chaff,  banter 
and  laughter,  during  the  whole  journey. 

There  was  one  strange  idea  he  had  somehow  got 
fixed  in  his  head,  and  that  was,  when  he  married, 
to  wed  no  one  save  a  girl  of  noble  birth. 

"  But  such  girls  wish  to  marry  men  of  noble 
birth,"  he  was  warned. 

"  Well,"  retorted  Benoni,  "  are  not  we  noble 
too,  in  our  family  ?  Do  you  imagine  that  we 
Poulinets  are  a  set  of  clowns  like  you  folk.  Our 
ancestor  was  a  noble  exile,  he  wore  a  cloak  lined 
with  red  velvet,  buckles  on  his  shoes,  and  silk 
stockings  !  " 

At  last,  by  dint  of  patient  inquiries,  he  really  did 
hear  of  a  family  belonging  to  the  old  aristocracy, 


AT   MONSIEUR   MILLETS   SCHOOL    83 

nearly  ruined  and  with  seven  unmarried,  dower- 
less  daughters.  The  father,  a  dissipated  fellow, 
was  in  the  habit  of  selling  a  portion  of  his  property 
every  year  to  his  creditors,  and  they  ended  by 
acquiring  everything,  even  the  chateau.  So  my 
gallant  Uncle  Benoni  put  on  his  best  attire,  and 
one  fine  day  presented  himself  as  a  suitor.  The 
eldest  of  the  girls,  though  daughter  of  a  marquis 
and  Commander  of  Malta,  to  escape  the  inevit- 
able destiny  of  becoming  an  old  maid,  ended  by 
accepting  him. 

It  was  from  such  a  source  that  the  pretty  story 
entitled  "  Fin  du  Marquisat  d'Aurel  "  was  taken, 
written  by  Henri  de  la  Madeleine,  and  telling  of  a 
noble  family  fallen  to  the  plebeian  class. 

As  I  said,  my  uncle  was  an  idle  fellow.  Often 
about  the  middle  of  the  day,  when  he  should  have 
been  digging  or  forking  in  the  garden,  he  would 
fling  aside  his  tools,  and  retiring  to  the  shade, 
draw  out  his  flute  and  start  a  rigaudon.  At  the 
sound  of  music,  the  girls  at  work  in  the  neighbour- 
ing fields  would  come  running,  and  forthwith 
he  would  play  a  sauterelle  and  start  them  all 
dancing. 

In  winter  he  seldom  got  up  before  midday. 

"  Where  can  one  be  so  snug,  so  warm,  as  in  one's 
bed  ?  "  he  laughed. 


84  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

And  when  we  asked  if  he  did  not  get  bored 
staying  in  bed,  his  reply  was  : 

"  Not  I !  When  I  am  sleepy  I  sleep,  and  when  I 
am  not,  I  say  psalms  for  the  dead." 

Curiously  enough,  this  light-hearted  son  of 
Provence  never  missed  a  funeral,  and  the  service 
over,  he  was  always  the  last  to  leave  the  cemetery, 
remaining  behind  that  he  might  pray  for  his  own 
family  and  for  others.  Then,  resuming  his  old 
gaiety,  he  would  observe  : 

"  Another  one  gone — carried  into  the  city  of 
Saint  Repose!" 

In  his  turn  he  had  also  to  go  there.  He  was 
eighty-three  and  the  doctor  had  told  his  family 
there  was  nothing  more  to  be  done. 

"  Bah,"  answered  Benoni,  "  what's  the  good  of 
worrying.  It  is  the  sickest  man  that  will  die  first." 

He  always  had  his  flute  on  the  table  beside  him. 

"  Those  idiots  gave  me  a  bell  to  ring ;  but  I 
made  them  fetch  my  flute,  which  answers  far 
better.  If  I  want  anything  I  just  play  an  air 
instead  of  calling  or  ringing." 

And  so  it  happened  that  he  died  with  his  flute 
in  his  hand,  and  they  placed  it  with  him  in  his 
coffin.  This  gave  rise  to  the  story  started  by  the 
girls  of  the  silk-mill  at  Maillane,  that  as  the  clock 
struck  twelve,  old  Benoni,  flute  in  hand,  rose  from 


ARLESIENNES  AT  MAILLANE. 


AT  MONSIEUR   MILLETS   SCHOOL    85 

his  grave  and  began  playing  a  veritable  devil's 
dance,  whereupon  all  the  other  corpses  also  arose 
carrying  their  coffins,  and  there  in  the  middle  of 
the  "  Grand  Clos,"  having  set  fire  to  the  coffins  in 
order  to  warm  themselves,  they  proceeded  to 
perform  a  mad  jig  round  the  fire  till  daybreak,  to 
the  sound  of  Benoni's  flute. 

Having  now  introduced  Uncle  Benoni,  I  must 
return  to  my  journey  with  him.  Accompanied  by 
my  mother  and  my  three  aunts,  we  all  set  out  for 
Avignon.  The  whole  way,  as  we  jogged  along,  we 
discussed  the  state  of  the  crops,  the  plantations, 
the  vineyards  that  we  passed.  I  was  told,  one 
after  the  other,  all  the  traditional  tales  that 
marked  the  road  to  Avignon  ;  for  example,  how, 
at  the  bridge  of  "  La  Folie,"  the  wizards  formerly 
held  their  wild  dances,  and  how  at  La  Croisiere 
the  highwaymen  would  stop  the  traveller  with  ; 
"  Your  money  or  your  life  "  ;  this  was  liable  to 
occur  also  at  the  Croix  de  la  Lieue  and  the  Rocher 
d' Aiguille. 

At  last  we  arrived  at  the  sandy  bed  of  the 
Durance.  A  year  before  the  flood  had  swept  away 
the  bridge,  and  it  was  necessary  to  cross  the  river 
by  a  ferry-boat.  We  found  some  hundred  carts 
there  awaiting  their  turn  to  go  over.  We  waited 
with  the  rest  for  about  two  hours,  and  then 


86  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

embarked,  after  chasing  home  "  Le  Juif,"  the  big 
dog,  who  had  followed  us  so  far. 

It  was  past  twelve  o'clock  when  we  finally 
reached  Avignon.  We  stabled  our  horses,  like 
all  those  from  our  village,  at  the  Hotel  de  Provence, 
a  little  inn  on  the  Place  du  Corps-Saint,  and  for 
the  rest  of  the  day  we  roamed  about  the  town. 

'  Would  you  like  me  to  treat  you  to  the 
theatre  ?  "  said  Uncle  Benoni ;  "  they  are  giving 
Maniclo  and  the  Bishop  of  Castro  this  evening." 

"  Oh,  let  us  go  and  see  Maniclo  !  "  we  responded 
in  chorus. 

It  was  my  first  visit  to  the  theatre  and  my  star 
ordained  I  should  see  a  play  of  Provence.  As  for 
the  Bishop  of  Castro,  it  was  a  sombre  piece  that 
did  not  much  interest  us,  and  my  aunts  main- 
tained that  they  played  Maniclo  much  better  at 
Maillane.  For  at  that  time,  in  our  villages,  we 
got  up  plays  both  comic  and  tragic  during  the 
winter  months.  I  have  seen  the  Death  of  Ccesar, 
Zaire,  Joseph  and,  his  Brethren,  played  by  the 
villagers,  their  costumes  made  up  out  of  their 
wives'  skirts  and  the  counterpanes  from  their 
beds.  They  loved  the  tragedies,  and  followed 
with  great  pleasure  the  mournful  declamation  of 
the  five-act  piece.  But  they  also  gave  L'Avocat 
Pathelin,  translated  into  Provencale,  and  various 


AT   MONSIEUR   MILLET'S   SCHOOL    87 

lively  comedies  from  the  Marseillaise  repertoire. 
Benoni  was  always  the  leading  spirit  of  these 
evenings,  where,  with  his  violin,  he  accompanied 
the  songs,  and  as  a  youngster  I  remember  taking 
part  in  several  plays  and  earning  much  applause. 

The  morning  after  Maniclo  came  the  inevitable 
parting,  and  with  a  heart  heavy  as  a  pea  that  had 
soaked  nine  days,  I  bade  farewell  to  my  mother, 
and  went  to  be  shut  up  in  the  school  of  Monsieur 
Millet,  Rue  Petramale.  Monsieur  Millet  was  a  big 
man,  tall,  with  heavy  eyebrows,  a  red  face,  little 
pig's  eyes,  feet  like  an  elephant's,  hideous  square 
fingers  and  slovenly  appearance. 

A  woman  from  the  hills,  fat  and  uncomely, 
cooked  for  us  and  managed  the  house.  I  never 
ate  so  many  carrots  before  or  since,  carrots  badly 
cooked  in  a  flour  sauce.  In  three  months,  my 
poor  little  body  was  reduced  to  a  skeleton. 

Avignon,  the  predestined,  where  one  day  the 
Gai-Savoir  was  to  effect  the  renaissance,  was 
not  at  that  time  the  bright  town  of  to-day.  She 
had  not  enlarged  her  Place  de  1'Horloge,  nor 
widened  out  the  Place  Pic,  nor  constructed  the 
Grande  Rue.  The  Roque  de  Dom,  which  com- 
mands the  town,  was  no  lovely  garden  laid  out  as 
for  a  king,  but,  save  for  the  cemetery,  a  bare  and 
barren  rock,  while  the  ramparts,  half  in  ruins, 


88  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

were  surrounded  by  ditches  full  of  rubbish  and 
stagnant  water.  Rough  street-porters  formed  the 
city  corporation,  and  made  laws  as  they  chose  for 
the  town  suburbs.  It  was  they  and  their  chief, 
a  sort  of  Hercules  nicknamed  "  Four  Arms," 
who  swept  away  the  Town  Hall  of  Avignon  in  1848. 

Here,  as  in  Italy,  every  week  each  house  was 
visited  by  a  black-clad  penitent,  who,  face  covered, 
with  two  holes  for  eyes,  went  round  shaking  his 
money-box  chaunting  solemnly : 

"  For  the  poor  prisoners  !  " 

In  the  streets  one  constantly  ran  up  against  all 
sorts  of  local  celebrities.  There  was  the  Sister 
Boute-Cuire,  her  covered  basket  on  her  arm,  and 
a  big  crucifix  on  her  ample  bosom  ;  or  the  plasterer 
Barret,  who  in  some  street  fight  with  the  Liberals 
had  once  lost  his  hat,  and  thereupon  sworn  never 
to  wear  one  again  till  Henri  V.  was  on  the  throne, 
a  vow  that  involved  his  going  bare-headed  for  the 
rest  of  his  life.  And  at  every  corner  were  to  be 
seen  the  picturesque  pensioners  of  Avignon,  a 
branch  of  the  Military  Hotel  in  Paris,  with  their 
wide-brimmed  hats  and  long  blue  capes,  venerable 
remnants  of  ancient  wars,  maimed,  lame  and  blind, 
who  with  wooden  legs  and  cautious  steps  hammered 
their  careful  way  along  the  cobbled  pavements. 

The  town  was  passing  through  a  state  of  unrest 


AT  MONSIEUR   MILLET'S   SCHOOL    89 

and  upheaval  between  the  old  and  new  regimes, 
the  members  of  which  still  fought  in  secret. 
Terrible  memories  of  past  evils,  abuses,  reproaches, 
yet  survived,  and  were  very  bitter  between  people 
of  a  certain  age.  The  Carlists  talked  incessantly 
of  the  Orange  Tribunal,  of  Jourdan  Coupe-tetes, 
of  the  massacres  of  La  Glaciere.  The  Liberals  were 
always  ready  to  retaliate  with  the  year  1815,  and 
the  assassination  of  Marshal  Brune,  whose  corpse 
had  been  thrown  into  the  Rhone,  while  his  pro- 
perty was  plundered  and  the  murderers  let  go 
unpunished.  Among  these  latter,  Pointer  left 
so  notorious  a  reputation  that,  did  any  upstart 
achieve  sudden  success  in  his  business,  it  was  at 
once  said  of  him,  "  Here  are  some  of  Marechal 
Brune' s  louis  cropping  up  again." 

The  people  of  Avignon,  like  those  of  Aix  and 
Marseilles,  and  indeed  of  all  the  towns  of  Provence 
at  that  time,  regretted  the  disappearance  of  the 
Lily  and  the  White  Flag.  The  warm  sympathy 
on  the  part  of  our  predecessors  for  the  royal  cause 
was  not,  I  think,  so  much  a  political  opinion  as 
an  unconscious  and  popular  protest  against  the 
aggressive  centralisation,  which  the  Jacobinism 
of  the  first  Empire  had  made  so  odious. 

The  Lily  had  always  been  to  the  Proven9als 
(who  bore  it  in  their  national  coat  of  arms)  the 


go  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

symbol  of  a  time  when  their  customs,  traditions 
and  franchise  were  respected  by  the  Government ; 
but  to  think  that  our  fathers  wished  to  return  to 
the  abuses  which  obtained  before  the  Revolution 
would  be  a  great  error,  for  it  was  Provence  who 
sent  Mirabeau  to  the  Etats  Generaux,  and  there 
was  no  part  of  France  where  the  Revolution  was 
carried  on  with  more  passionate  fervour  than  in 
Provence. 

The  ancient  city  of  Avignon  is  so  steeped  in  by- 
gone glories  that  it  is  impossible  to  take  a  step 
without  awakening  some  memory  of  the  past. 
Close  to  the  spot  where  our  school  was  situated 
once  stood  the  Convent  of  Sainte-Claire,  and  it  was 
in  that  convent  chapel  that  Petrarch  first  beheld 
his  Laura  one  April  morning  in  1327. 

Our  quarter  had  other  associations  in  those  days 
of  a  more  lugubrious  character,  owing  to  the  near 
proximity  of  the  University  and  the  Medical 
School.  No  little  shoeblack  or  chimney-sweep 
could  ever  be  induced  to  come  and  work  at  our 
school,  for  it  was  firmly  believed  that  the  students 
laid  in  wait  to  catch  all  the  small  boys,  for  the 
purpose  of  bleeding  and  skinning  them,  and  after- 
wards dissecting  their  corpses. 

It  was  not  less  interesting  for  us,  children  of 
villages  for  the  most  part,  when  we  went  out  to 


AT   MONSIEUR   MILLETS   SCHOOL    91 

ramble  about  in  the  labyrinth  of  alleys  that 
formed  our  neighbourhood,  such  as  the  "  Little 
Paradise,"  which  had  been  a  "  hot  quarter,"  and 
was  so  still,  or  the  Street  of  Brandy,  or  of  the 
"  Cat,"  or  the  "  Cock,"  or  the  Devil !  But  what 
a  difference  between  this  and  the  beautiful  valleys 
all  flowered  with  asphodel,  and  the  fine  air,  the 
peace  and  the  liberty  of  St.  Michel  de  Frigolet. 
Some  days  my  heart  would  ache  with  home- 
sickness, and  yet  Monsieur  Millet,  who  was  a 
good  devil  at  bottom,  ended  by  taming  me.  He 
was  from  Caderousse,  a  farmer's  son,  like  myself, 
and  he  had  a  great  admiration  for  the  famous 
poem,  "  The  Siege  of  Caderousse."  He  knew  it  by 
heart,  and  sometimes,  while  explaining  some  grand 
fight  of  the  Greeks  or  the  Trojans,  he  would 
suddenly  give  a  shake  to  his  grey  tuft  of  hair 
and  exclaim  : 

"  Now  see,  this  is  one  of  the  finest  bits  of  Virgil, 
isn't  it  ?  Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 
that  Favre,  the  songster  of  the  Siege  of  Caderousse, 
follows  very  close  at  Virgil's  heels." 

How  they  appealed  to  us,  these  recitations  in 
our  own  tongue — so  full  of  savour  !  The  fat 
Millet  would  shout  with  laughter,  and  I,  who  had 
retained  in  my  blood  more  than  the  others  the 
honeyed  essence  of  my  childhood,  found  nothing 


92  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

gave  me  more  pleasure  than  these  fruits  of  my 
own  country. 

Monsieur  Millet  would  go  every  day  about  five 
o'clock  to  read  the  news  in  the  Cafe  Baretta,  which 
he  called  the  "  Caf6  of  talking  animals."  It  was 
kept,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  by  the  uncle,  or  perhaps 
grandfather,  of  Mademoiselle  Baretta  of  the 
Theatre-Frangais  ;  then,  the  next  day,  if  he  were 
in  a  good  temper,  he  would  give  us  an  epitome,  not 
without  a  touch  of  malice,  of  the  eternal  growling 
of  the  old  politicians  assembled  there,  who  at 
that  time  talked  of  nothing  but  the  "  Little  One," 
as  they  called  Henri  V. 

It  was  that  year  I  made  my  first  communion 
in  the  Church  of  Saint-Didier,  and  it  was  the  bell- 
ringer  Fanot,  of  whom  Roumanille  sang  later  in  his 
"  Cloche  Montee,"  who  daily  rang  us  in  for  the 
Catechism.  Two  months  before  the  confirmation 
Monsieur  Millet  took  us  to  the  church  to  be 
catechised.  And  there,  with  the  other  boys  and 
girls,  who  were  also  being  prepared,  we  were 
ranged  in  rows  on  benches  in  the  middle  of  the 
nave.  Chance  willed  that  I,  being  among  the  last 
row  of  boys,  should  find  myself  next  a  charming 
little  girl  placed  in  the  first  row  of  girls.  She  was 
called  Praxede,  and  had  cheeks  like  the  first  blush 
of  a  fresh  rose.  Children  are  queer  things  !  We 


AT   MONSIEUR   MILLET'S   SCHOOL    93 

met  every  day,  sitting  next  to  each  other,  and 
without  premeditation  our  elbows  would  touch, 
we  would  breathe  in  sympathy,  whisper  and  shake 
over  our  little  jokes  till  (the  angels  must  have 
smiled  to  see  it)  we  ended  by  actually  being 
in  love ! 

But  what  an  innocent  love !  how  full  of  mystic 
aspirations!  Those  same  angels,  if  they  feel  for 
each  other  reciprocal  affection,  must  know  just  such 
an  emotion.  We  were  both  but  twelve  years  old, 
the  age  of  Beatrice  when  Dante  first  saw  her,  and 
it  was  the  vision  of  this  young  budding  maiden 
that  evoked  the  "  Paradise  "  of  the  great  Florentine 
poet.  There  is  an  expression  in  our  language 
exactly  rendering  this  soul  delight  which  intoxi- 
cates two  young  people  in  the  first  spring-time  of 
youth,  it  signifies  being  of  one  accord,  "  nous  nous 
agreions."  It  is  true  we  never  met  except  in 
church,  but  the  mere  sight  of  each  other  filled  our 
hearts  with  happiness.  I  smiled  at  her,  she  smiled 
back,  our  voices  were  united  in  the  same  songs  of 
divine  love,  we  made  the  same  signs  of  grace,  and 
our  souls  were  uplifted  by  the  same  mysteries 
of  a  simple  spontaneous  faith.  O  dawn  of  love, 
blooming  with  a  joy  as  innocent  as  the  daisy  by 
the  clear  brook !  First  fleeting  dawn  of  pure  love ! 

Still  I  can  picture  Mademoiselle  Praxede,  as  I 


94  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

saw  her  for  the  last  time — dressed  all  in  white, 
crowned  with  a  wreath  of  may,  most  sweet  to  look 
upon  beneath  her  transparent  veil,  as  she  mounted 
the  steps  of  the  altar  by  my  side,  like  a  bride — 
lovely  little  bride  of  the  Lamb. 

Our  confirmation  once  over,  the  episode  was 
finished.  Vainly,  for  long  afterwards,  when  we 
passed  down  the  Rue  de  la  Lice,  where  she  lived, 
my  hungry  eyes  scanned  the  green  shutters  of  the 
home  of  Praxede,  but  I  never  saw  her  again.  She 
had  been  sent  to  a  convent  school.  The  thought 
that  my  sweet  little  friend  of  the  rosy  cheeks  and 
charming  smile  was  lost  to  me  for  ever  gave  me  a 
disgust  for  everything  in  life,  and  I  fell  into  a  state 
of  languor  and  melancholy. 

When  the  holidays  arrived  and  I  returned  to 
the  farm,  my  mother  found  me  pale  and  feverish, 
and  decided,  in  order  both  to  cure  and  to  divert  me, 
that  I  should  go  with  her  on  a  pilgrimage  to  Saint- 
Gent,  the  patron  of  all  those  suffering  from  fever. 

To  Saint-Gent  is  also  attributed  the  power  of 
sending  rain,  which  makes  him  a  sort  of  demi-god 
to  the  peasants  on  both  sides  of  the  Durance. 

"  I  went  to  Saint-Gent  before  the  Revolution," 
said  my  father.  "  I  was  ten  years  old  and  I  walked 
the  whole  way  barefoot  with  my  poor  mother. 
But  we  had  more  faith  in  those^days." 


AT   MONSIEUR   MILLET'S   SCHOOL    95 

So  we  started  one  fine  night  in  September,  by 
the  light  of  the  moon,  with  Uncle  Benoni,  of  whom 
I  have  already  spoken,  as  driver. 

Other  pilgrims  bound  for  the  fete  j  oined  us  from 
Chateau-Renard,  from  Noves,  Thor,  and  from 
Pernes,  their  carts,  covered  like  our  own  with 
canvas  stretched  over  wooden  hoops,  formed  a 
long  procession  down  the  road.  Singing  and 
shouting  in  chorus  the  canticle  of  Saint-Gent,  a 
magnificent  old  tune — Gounod,  by  the  way,  intro- 
duced it  into  his  opera  of  Mireille — we  passed 
through  the  sleeping  villages  to  the  sound  of 
cracking  whips,  and  not  till  the  following  afternoon 
about  four  o'clock  did  we  all  arrive  at  the  Gorge 
de  Bausset,  where,  with  "  Long  live  Saint-Gent," 
we  descended.  There,  in  the  very  place  where 
the  venerated  hermit  passed  his  days  of  penitence, 
the  old  people  repeated  to  the  younger  ones  all  they 
had  heard  tell  of  the  saint. 

"  Gent,"  they  said,  "  was  one  of  us,  the  son  of 
peasants,  a  fine  youth  from  Monteux,  who,  at 
the  age  of  fifteen,  retired  into  the  desert  to  con- 
secrate himself  to  God.  He  tilled  the  earth  with 
two  cows.  One  day  a  wolf  attacked  and  devoured 
one  of  his  cows.  Gent  caught  the  wolf,  and  har- 
nessing him  to  the  plough,  made  him  work,  yoked 
with  the  other  cow.  Meanwhile  at  Monteux,  since 


96  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

Gent  departed,  no  rain  had  fallen  for  seven  years, 
so  the  Montelaix  said  to  his  mother  Imberti : 

"  Good  woman,  you  must  go  and  find  your  son 
and  tell  him  that  since  he  left  us  we  have  not  had 
a  drop  of  rain." 

The  mother  of  Gent,  by  dint  of  searching  and 
crying,  at  last  found  her  son,  here,  where  we  are 
at  this  moment,  in  the  Gorge  de  Bausset,  and  as 
his  mother  was  thirsty,  Gent  pressed  the  steep 
rock  with  two  of  his  fingers  and  two  springs  jetted 
forth,  one  of  wine,  the  other  of  water.  The  spring 
of  wine  has  dried  up,  but  the  water  runs  still, 
and  it  is  as  the  hand  of  God  for  healing  all  bad 
fevers. 

There  are  two  yearly  pilgrimages  to  the  Her- 
mitage of  Saint-Gent.  The  first  one,  in  May,  is 
specially  for  the  country  people,  the  Montelaix, 
and  they  carry  his  statue  from  Monteux  to  Bausset, 
a  pilgrimage  of  some  six  miles,  made  on  foot  in 
memory  of  the  flight  of  the  saint. 

Here  is  the  letter  which  Aubanel  wrote  to  me 
in  1866,  when  he  also  made  the  pilgrimage. 

"  MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — With  Grivolas  I  have  just 
returned  from  a  pilgrimage  to  Saint-Gent.  It  is  a 
wonderful,  sublime,  and  poetical  experience,  and 
that  nocturnal  journey  bearing  the  image  of  the 


AT  MONSIEUR   MILLET'S   SCHOOL    97 

saint  has  left  on  my  soul  a  unique  impression. 
The  mayor  lent  us  a  carriage,  and  we  followed 
with  the  pilgrims  through  fields  and  woods  by 
the  light  of  the  moon,  to  the  song  of  nightingales, 
from  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  till  past  midnight. 
It  was  so  impressive  and  mysterious — strange  and 
beautiful — that  one  felt  the  tears  start.  Four 
youths  lightly  clothed  in  nankin,  running  like 
hares,  flying  like  birds,  set  out  with  the  sacred 
burden,  preceded  by  a  man  on  horseback,  gallop- 
ing and  signalling  their  approach  with  pistol-shots. 
The  people  of  the  farms  hurried  out  to  see  the 
saint  pass,  men,  women,  children  and  old  people, 
stopped  the  carriers,  kissing  the  statue,  praying, 
weeping,  gesticulating.  Then  off  went  the  bearers 
again  more  swiftly  than  ever,  while  the  women 
cried  after  them  : 

"  ( Happy  journey,  boys.' 

"  And  the  men  added  : 

"  'May  the  good  saint  uphold  you.' 

"  And  so  they  run  till  they  pant  for  breath.  Oh  ! 
that  journey  through  the  night,  and  that  little 
troop  going  forth  into  the  darkness  under  the 
protection  of  God  and  Saint-Gent,  into  the  desert, 
no  one  knew  whither.  I  assure  you  there  was  in 
all  this  a  profound  note  of  poetry  that  made  an 
indelible  impression  on  my  mind." 

G 


98  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

The  second  pilgrimage  of  Saint-Gent  takes  place 
in  September,  and  it  was  to  that  we  went.  Now 
as  Saint-Gent  had  only  been  canonised  by  the  voice 
of  the  people,  the  priests  take  very  little  notice  of 
him,  and  the  townsfolk  still  less.  It  is  the  people 
of  the  soil  who  recognise  the  right  of  the  good 
saint  to  be  canonised,  he  who  was  simply  one  of 
themselves,  spoke  and  worked  even  as  they,  and 
who,  with  but  moderate  delays,  sends  them  the 
rain  they  pray  for,  and  cures  their  fevers.  His 
cult  is  so  fervent  that,  in  the  narrow  gorge  dedi- 
cated to  the  legend  of  his  memory,  sometimes  as 
many  as  20,000  pilgrims  are  assembled. 

Tradition  records  that  Saint-Gent  slept  on  a  bed 
of  stone  with  his  head  down  and  his  feet  up  ;  so 
all  the  pilgrims,  in  a  spirit  of  devotion  not  unmixed 
with  gaiety,  go  and  lie  like  fallen  trees  in  the  bed 
of  Saint-Gent,  which  is  a  hollow  formed  in  the 
sloping  rock ;  the  women  also  place  themselves 
there,  carefully  holding  each  other's  skirts  in  a 
decorous  position. 

We,  too,  lay  in  the  stone  bed  like  the  others,  and 
I  went  with  my  mother  to  see  the  "  Spring  of  the 
Wolf,"  and  the  "  Spring  of  the  Cow."  Then  on 
to  the  Chapel  of  Saint-Gent,  surrounded  by  a 
group  of  old  walnut-trees,  and  containing  his 
tomb.  And  lastly,  we  visited  the  "  terrible  rock," 


AT  MONSIEUR  MILLET'S  SCHOOL    99 

as  the  old  canticle  calls  it,  from  whence  flows  the 
miraculous  fount  which  cures  fever. 

Full  of  wonder  at  all  these  tales,  these  beliefs 
and  visions,  my  soul  intoxicated  by  the  scent  of 
the  plants  and  the  sight  of  this  place,  still  hallowed 
by  the  impress  of  the  saint's  feet,  with  the  beautiful 
faith  of  my  twelve  years  I  drank  freely  of  the 
spring,  and — people  may  think  what  they  please 
— from  that  moment  I  had  no  more  fever. 
Therefore  do  not  be  astonished  that  the  daughter 
of  the  Felibre,  the  poor  Mireille,  when  lost  in  the 
Crau  and  dying  of  thirst,  calls  on  the  good  Saint- 
Gent  to  come  to  her  rescue.  (Mireille,  Song  viii.) 

On  my  return  to  Avignon,  a  new  arrangement 
was  made  for  carrying  on  our  classes.  We  con- 
tinued to  live  at  the  school  of  the  fat  Monsieur 
Millet,  but  were  taken  twice  a  day  to  the  Royal 
College,  to  attend  the  University  course  as  day 
scholars,  and  it  was  in  this  way  that  for  five  years 
(1843-1847)  I  continued  my  education. 

The  masters  of  the  college  were  not  then,  as 
now,  young  professors  with  degrees  and  coats  of 
the  latest  cut.  The  professional  chairs  were 
occupied  in  our  day  by  some  of  the  drastic  grey- 
beards of  the  old  University.  For  example,  in 
the  fourth  class  we  had  the  worthy  Monsieur  Blanc, 


ioo  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

formerly  a  sergeant-major  in  the  Imperial  army, 
who,  when  our  replies  were  inadequate,  promptly 
hurled  at  our  heads  the  first  book  he  could  lay 
hands  on.  In  another  class,  Monsieur  Lamy,  a 
rabid  classic,  who  held  in  abhorrence  the  innova- 
tions of  Victor  Hugo ;  while  for  rhetoric  we  had  a 
rough  patriot  named  Monsieur  Chaulaire,  who 
detested  the  English,  and  with  vehement  emotion, 
banging  his  fist  on  the  desk,  was  wont  to  recite 
to  us  the  warlike  songs  of  Beranger. 

One  year  I  remember  specially,  for  how  it 
happened  I  have  no  idea,  but  at  the  distribution 
of  prizes  in  the  church  of  the  college,  in  presence 
of  the  assembled  fine  world  of  Avignon,  I  found 
myself  carrying  off  all  the  prizes,  even  that  for 
conduct.  Every  time  my  name  was  called,  I 
timidly  advanced  to  fetch  the  beautiful  book 
and  the  laurel  crown  from  the  hand  of  the  head- 
master, then,  returning  through  the  applauding 
crowd,  I  threw  my  trophies  in  my  mother's  lap, 
and  every  one  turned  to  look  with  curiosity  and 
astonishment  at  the  beautiful  Provencale  who, 
her  face  beaming  with  happiness  but  still  calm  and 
dignified,  piled  up  in  her  rush  basket  the  laurels 
of  her  son.  Afterwards,  at  the  farm — sic  transit 
gloria  mundi — these  aforesaid  laurels  were  placed 
on  the  chimney-piece  behind  the  pots. 


AT  MONSIEUR   MILLETS  SCHOOL  101 

Whatever  was  done,  however,  in  the  way  of 
education  to  distract  me  from  my  natural  bent, 
the  love  of  my  own  language  remained  always 
my  ruling  passion,  and  many  circumstances 
tended  to  nurture  it. 

On  one  occasion,  having  read,  in  I  forget  what 
journal,  some  Provengal  verses  of  Jasmin  to 
Lo'isa  Puget,  and  recognising  that  there  were 
poets  who  still  glorified  the  langue  d'Oc,  seized  with 
a  fine  enthusiasm,  I  did  likewise  for  the  celebrated 
hairdresser,  and  composed  an  appreciation  which 
begins  thus  : 

Poet,  honour  to  thy  Gascon  mother ! 

but,  poor  little  chap,  I  received  no  answer.  Of 
course  I  know  the  poor  'prentice  verses  deserved 
none,  but — no  use  denying  it — this  disdain  hurt  me, 
and  when  in  after  life  I  in  my^turn  received  such 
offerings,  remembering  my4own  discomfort,  I 
always  felt  it  a  duty  to  acknowledge  them  with 
courtesy. 

About  the  age  of  fourteen,  the  longing  forjny 
native  fields  and  the  sound  of  my  native  tongue 
grew  on  me  to  such  a  degree  that  it  ended  by 
making  me  quite  ill  from  home-sickness. 

Like  the  prodigal  son,  I  saidjto  myself,  "  How 
much  happier  are  the  servants  and  shepherds  of 
our  farm,  down  there,  who  eat  the  good  bread  that 


102  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

my  mother  provides ;  the  friends  of  my  child- 
hood, too,  my  comrades  of  Maillane,  who  live  at 
liberty  in  the  country,  labouring,  sowing,  reaping, 
and  gathering  olives,  beneath  the  blessed  sun  of 
God,  than  I  who  drudge  between  four  walls, 
over  translations  and  compositions." 

My  sorrow  was  mixed  with  a  strong  distaste 
for  the  unreal  world  where  I  was  immured,  and 
with  a  constant  drawing  towards  some  vague 
ideal  which  I  discerned  in  the  blue  distance  of  the 
horizon.  So  it  fell  out  that  one  day  while  reading, 
I  think,  the  Magazin  des  Families,  I  came  upon 
a  description  of  the  silent  and  contemplative  life 
of  the  Monks  of  La  Chartreuse  at  Valbonne. 

Thereupon  I  became  possessed  with  the  idea  of 
this  conventual  life,  and  escaping  from  the  school 
one  fine  afternoon  I  set  out  alone,  determined  and 
desperate,  on  the  road  to  Pont  Saint-Esprit,  which 
winds  along  the  banks  of  the  Rhone,  for  I  knew 
Valbonne  was  somewhere  in  that  neighbourhood. 
'  There,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  I  will  go  and 
knock  at  the  door  of  the  convent,  imploring  and 
weeping  until  they  consent  to  admit  me.  Then 
once  inside  I  will  roam  all  day,  in  bliss,  among  the 
trees  of  the  forest — I  will  steep  myself  in  thoughts 
of  God  and  sanctify  myself  as  did  the  good  Saint- 
Gent." 


AT  MONSIEUR  MILLET'S  SCHOOL  103 

Then  suddenly  a  thought  arrested  me  : 

"  And  thy  mother,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  to  whom, 
miserable  boy,  thou  hast  not  even  bidden  farewell, 
and  who,  when  she  learns  thou  hast  disappeared, 
will  seek  thee  by  hill  and  by  dale,  poor  woman, 
weeping  disconsolate  as  did  the  mother  of  Gent !  " 

Turning  about,  with  a  heavy  heart  and  hesi- 
tating steps  I  made  my  way  back  to  the  farm, 
in  order  to  embrace  my  parents  once  more  before 
forsaking  the  world ;  but  the  nearer  I  drew  to 
the  paternal  home,  the  faster  my  monkish  ideas 
and  proud  resolution  melted  in  the  warmttf  of  my 
filial  love,  as  a  ball  of  snow  dissolves  before  the 
fire.  At  the  door  of  the  farm,  where  I  arrived  late, 
my  mother  cried  out  in  astonishment  at  the  sight 
of  me  : 

"  But  why  have  you  left  your  school  before  the 
holidays  ?  " 

And  I,  already  ashamed  of  my  flight,  replied 
in  a  broken  voice  :  "I  am  home-sick — I  cannot 
go  back  to  that  fat  old  Millet,  where  one  has  only 
carrots  to  eat." 

But  the  next  day  our  shepherd,  Ronquet,  took 
me  back  to  my  abhorred  jail,  with  the  promise, 
however,  that  I  should  be  liberated  at  the  end  of 
the  term. 


CHAPTER  VII 
THREE  EARLY  FELIBRES 

LIKE  the  cats  who  continually  move  their  young 
ones  from  place  to  place,  at  the  opening  of  the 
next  school  year  my  mother  took  me  off  to 
Monsieur  Dupuy,  a  native  of  Carpentras,  who 
kept  a  school  in  Avignon  near  the  Pont-Troue. 
And  here,  in  furtherance  of  my  ambitions  as  a 
budding  Provensalist,  I  had  indeed  my  "  nozzle 
in  the  hay." 

Monsieur  Dupuy  was  the  brother  of  Charles 
Dupuy,  a  former  Deputy  of  La  Drome,  and  author 
of  "  Petit  Papillons,"  a  delicate  morsel  of  our 
modern  Provensal.  Our  Dupuy  also  tried  his 
hand  at  Proven£al  poetry,  but  he  did  not  boast 
about  it,  and  therein  showed  wisdom. 

Shortly  after  my  arrival,  there  came  to  the 
school  a  young  professor  with  a  fine  black  beard, 
a  native  of  Saint-Remy,  whose  name  was  Joseph 
Roumanille.  As  we  were  neighbours — Maillane 
and  Saint-Remy  being  in  the  same  canton — and 
our  families,  both  of  the  farming  class,  had  known 
each  other  for  years  past,  we  were  soon  friends. 


THREE  EARLY  FELIBRES        105 

Before  long  I  found  another  bond  which  drew  us 
still  closer,  namely,  that  the  young  professor  was 
also  interested  in  writing  verses  in  the  language 
of  Provence. 

On  Sundays  we  went  to  Mass  and  vespers  at 
the  Carmelite  church.  Our  places  were  behind 
the  High  Altar,  in  the  choir-stalls,  and  there  our 
young  voices  mingled  with  those  of  the  choristers, 
among  whom  was  Denis  Cassan,  another  Proven- 
$al  poet,  and  one  of  the  most  popular  at  the 
carousals  of  the  students'  quarter.  We  saw  him, 
however,  clad  in  a  surplice,  with  a  foolish  phleg- 
matic air,  as  he  intoned  the  responses  and  psalms. 
The  street  where  he  lived  now  bears  his  name. 

One  Sunday  during  vespers,  the  idea  came  into 
my  head  to  render  in  Proven£al  verse  the  peni- 
tential psalms,  so  in  the  half-opened  book  I  began 
furtively  to  scribble  down  my  version  in  pencil. 

But  Monsieur  Roumanille,  who  was  in  charge, 
came  behind  me,  and  seizing  the  paper  I  was 
writing,  read  it  and  then  showed  it  to  the  head- 
master, Monsieur  Dupuy.  The  latter,  it  seems, 
viewed  the  matter  leniently  ;  so  after  vespers, 
during  our  walk  round  the  ramparts,  Roumanille 
called  me  to  him. 

"  So,  my  little  Mistral,  you  amuse  yourself 
by  writing  verses  in  Proven£al  ?  " 


io6  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

"  Sometimes,"  I  admitted. 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  repeat  you  some  verses. 
Listen !  "  And  then  in  his  deep  sympathetic 
voice  he  recited  to  me  one  after  another  of  his 
own  poems — "  Les  Deux  Agneux,"  "  Le  Petit 
Joseph/'  "  Paulon,"  Madeleine  et  Louisette,"  a 
veritable  outburst  of  April  flowers  and  meadow 
blooms,  heralds  of  the  Felibrean  spring  time. 
Filled  with  delight,  I  listened,  feeling  that  here 
was  the  dawn  for  which  my  soul  had  been  waiting 
to  awake  to  the  light. 

Up  to  that  time  I  had  only  read  a  few  stray 
scraps  in  the  Provengal,  and  it  had  always 
aggravated  me  to  find  that  our  language  (Jasmin 
and  the  Marquis  de  Lafare  alone  excepted)  was 
usually  used  only  in  derision.  But  here  was 
Roumanille,  with  this  splendid  voice  of  his,  ex- 
pressing, in  the  tongue  of  the  people,  with  dignity 
and  simplicity,  all  the  noblest  sentiments  of  the 
heart. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  notwithstanding  the 
difference  of  a  dozen  years  between  our  ages,  for 
Roumanille  was  born  in  1818,  we  clasped  hands, 
he  happy  to  find  a  confidant  quite  prepared  to 
understand  his  muse,  and  I,  trembling  with  joy 
at  entering  the  sanctuary  of  my  dreams ;  and 
thus,  as  sons  of  the  same  God,  we  were  united  in 


JOSEPH  ROUMANILLE. 


THREE  EARLY  FELIBRES         107 

the  bonds  of  friendship  under  so  happy  a  star 
that  for  half  a  century  we  walked  together,  devoted 
to  the  same  patriotic  cause,  without  our  affection 
or  our  zeal  ever  knowing  diminution. 

Roumanille  had  sent  his  first  verses  to  a  Pro- 
vengal  journal,  Boui-Abaisso,  which  was  published 
weekly  at  Marseilles  by  Joseph  Desanat,  and  which 
for  the  bards  of  the  day  was  an  admirable  outlet. 
For  the  language  has  never  lacked  exponents, 
and  especially  at  the  time  of  the  Boui-Abaisso 
(1841-1846)  there  was  a  strong  movement  at 
Marseilles  in  favour  of  the  dialect,  which,  had  it 
done  nothing  but  promote  writing  in  Proven£al, 
deserves  our  gratitude. 

Also  we  must  recognise  that  such  popular 
poets  as  Desanat  of  Tarascon,  or  Bellot  Chailan, 
Benedit  and  Gelu,  pre-eminently  Gelu,  each  of 
whom  in  his  way  expressed  the  buoyant  joyous 
spirit  of  southern  Provence,  have  never,  in  their 
particular  line,  been  surpassed.  Another,  Camille 
Reyband,  a  poet  of  Carpentras,  a  poet,  too,  of 
noble  dimensions,  in  a  grand  epistle  he  addressed 
to  Roumanille,  laments  the  fate  of  the  Provencal 
speech,  neglected  by  idiots  who,  declares  he, 
"  Follow  the  example  of  the  gentlemen  of  the 
towns,  and  leave  to  the  wise  old  forefathers  our 
unfortunate  language  while  they  render  the  French 


io8  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

tongue,  which  they  fundamentally  distort  into 
the  worst  of  patois." 

Reyband  seemed  to  foretell  the  Renaissance 
which  was  then  hatching  when  he  made  this  appeal 
to  the  editor  of  the  Boui-Abaisso : 

"  Before  we  separate,  my  brothers,  let  us  defend 
ourselves  against  oblivion.  Together  let  us  build 
up  a  colossal  edifice,  some  Tower  of  Babel  made 
from  the  bricks  of  Provence.  At  the  summit, 
whilst  singing,  engrave  your  names,  for  you,  my 
friends,  are  worthy  to  be  remembered.  As  for 
me,  whom  a  grain  of  praise  intoxicates  and  over- 
comes, and  who  only  sings  as  does  the  cicada, 
and  can  but  contribute  towards  your  monument 
a  pinch  of  gravel  and  a  little  poor  cement,  I 
will  dig  for  my  Muse  a  tomb  in  the  sand,  and 
when,  having  finished  your  imperishable  work, 
you  look  down,  my  brothers,  from  the  height  of 
your  blue  sky,  you  will  no  longer  be  able  to  see  me.'* 

All  these  gentlemen  were,  however,  imbued 
with  this  erroneous  idea  that  the  language  of  the 
people,  good  though  they  felt  it  to  be,  was  only 
suitable  for  common  or  droll  subjects,  and  hence 
they  took  no  pains  either  to  purify  or  to  restore  it. 

Since  the  time  of  Louis  XIV.  the  old  traditions 
for  the  spelling  of  our  language  had  become  almost 
obsolete.  The  poets  of  the  meridian  had,  partly 


THREE  EARLY  FELIBRES         109 

through  carelessness  or  ignorance,  adopted  the 
French  spelling.  And  this  utterly  false  system 
cut  at  the  root  of  our  beautiful  speech.  Every 
one  began  to  carry  out  his  own  orthographical 
fancies,  until  it  reached  such  a  point  that  the 
various  dialects  of  the  Oc  language,  owing  to  this 
constant  disfigurement  in  the  writing,  no  longer 
bore  any  resemblance  one  to  another. 

Roumanille,  when  reading  the  manuscripts  of 
Saboly  in  the  library  at  Avignon,  was  struck  by 
the  good  effect  of  our  language  when  written  in 
the  old  style  employed  by  the  ancient  troubadours. 
He  wished,  young  as  I  was,  to  have  my  help  in 
restoring  the  true  orthography,   and  in  perfect 
accord  concerning  the  plan  of  reform,  we  boldly 
started  in  to  moult,  as  it  were,  and  renew  the  skin 
of  our  language.     Instinctively  we  felt  that  for 
the  unknown  work  which  awaited  us  in  the  future 
we  should  need  a  fine  tool,  a  tool  freshly  ground. 
For  the  orthography  was  not  all.     Owing  to  the 
imitative   and  middle-class    spirit   of  prejudice, 
which  unfortunately  is  ever  on  the  increase,  many 
of  the  most  gritty  words  of  the  Provengal  tongue 
had  been  discarded  as  vulgar,  and  in  their  place, 
the  poets  who  preceded  the  Felibres,  even  those 
of  repute,  had  commonly  employed,  without  any 
critical  sense,  corrupt  forms  and  bastard  words 


no  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

of  uneducated  French.  Having  thus  determined, 
Roumanille  and  I,  to  write  our  verses  in  the 
language  of  the  people,  we  saw  it  was  necessary 
to  bring  out  strongly  the  energy,  freshness,  and 
richness  of  expression  that  characterised  it,  and 
to  render  the  pureness  of  speech  used  in  districts 
untouched  by  extreme  influences. 

Even  so  the  Roumanians,  the  poet  Alexander 
tells  us,  when  they  wished  to  elevate  their  national 
tongue  which  the  bourgeois  class  had  lost  or 
corrupted,  went  to  seek  it  out  in  the  villages  and 
mountains  among  the  primitive  peasants. 

In  order  to  conform  the  written  Provengal  as 
much  as  possible  to  the  pronunciation  in  general 
use  in  Provence,  we  decided  to  suppress  certain 
letters  or  etymological  finals  fallen  into  disuse, 
such  as  the  "s"  of  the  plural,  the  "t"  of  the 
particle, the  "r"  of  the  infinitive,  and  the  "ch" 
in  certain  words  like  "  fach,"  "  dich,"  "  puech,"  &c. 

But  let  no  one  think  that  these  innovations, 
though  they  concerned  none  save  a  small  circle 
of  patois  poets,  as  we  were  then  called,  were  intro- 
duced into  general  usage  without  a  severe  struggle. 
From  Avignon  to  Marseilles,  all  those  who  wrote 
or  rhymed  in  the  language  contested  for  their 
routine  or  their  fashion,  and  promptly  took  the 
field  against  the  reformers.  A  war  of  pamphlets 


THREE   EARLY   FELIBRES         in 

containing  envenomed  articles  between  these 
opponents  and  we  young  Avignons  continued  to 
rage  for  many  years. 

At  Marseilles,  the  exponents  of  trivialities,  the 
white-beard  rhymesters,  the  envious  and  the 
growlers  assembled  together  of  an  evening  behind 
the  old  bookshop  of  the  librarian  Boy,  there 
bitterly  to  bewail  the  suppression  of  the  "s"  and 
sharpen  their  weapons  against  the  innovators. 

Roumanille  the  valiant,  ever  ready  to  stand  in 
the  breech,  launched  against  the  adversaries  the 
Greek  fire  we  were  all  diligently  employed  in  pre- 
paring in  the  crucible  of  the  Gai-Savoir.  And 
because  we  had  on  our  side,  not  only  a  just  and 
good  cause,  but  faith,  enthusiasm,  youth — and 
something  else  besides — it  ended  in  our  being,  as  I 
will  show  you  later,  victors  on  the  field  of  battle. 

But  to  return  to  the  school  of  Monsieur  Dupuy. 

One  afternoon  we  were  in  the  courtyard,  playing 
at  "  Three  jumps,"  when  in  our  midst  appeared  a 
new  pupil.  He  was  tall  and  well  made,  with  a 
Henri  IV.  nose,  a  hat  cocked  to  one  side,  and  an 
air  of  maturity  heightened  by  the  unlit  cigar  in 
his  mouth.  His  hands  thrust  in  the  pockets 
of  his  short  coat,  he  came  up  just  as  if  he  were 
one  of  us. 


H2  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

"  Well,  what  are  you  after  ?  "  said  he.  "  Would 
you  like  me  to  see  if  I  can  do  these  three  jumps  ?  " 

And  without  more  ado,  light  as  a  cat,  he  took  a 
run  and  went  three  hands  beyond  the  highest  jump 
that  had  been  touched.  We  clapped  him,  and 
demanded  where  he  had  sprung  from. 

"  From  Chateauneuf,"  he  answered — "  the 
country  where  they  grow  good  wine.  Perhaps  you 
have  never  heard  of  Chateauneuf,  Chateauneuf- 
du-Pape  ?  " 

"  Yes,  we  have.     And  what  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Anselme  Mathieu,"  he  replied. 

And  with  these  words  he  plunged  his  two  hands 
into  his  pockets  and  brought  out  a  store  of  old 
cigar-ends,  which  he  offered  round  with  a  courteous 
and  smiling  air. 

We,  who  for  the  most  part  had  never  dared  to 
smoke  (unless,  indeed,  as  children  the  roots  of  the 
mulberry-tree),  thereupon  regarded  with  great 
respect  this  hero,  who  did  things  in  so  grand  a 
manner,  and  was  evidently  accustomed  to  high 
life. 

Thus  it  was  that  I  first  met  Mathieu,  the  gentle 
author  of  the  "  Farandole."  On  one  occasion,  I 
told  this  story  to  our  friend  Daudet,  who  loved 
Mathieu,  and  the  idea  of  the  old  ends  of  cigars 
pleased  him  so  much  that  in  his  romance  "  Jack," 


THREE  EARLY   FELIBRES        113 

he  makes  use  of  it  with  his  little  negro  prince, 
who  performs  the  same  act  of  largess. 

With  Roumanille  and  Mathieu,  we  were  thus  a 
trio  who  formed  the  nucleus  of  those  who  a  little 
later  were  to  found  the  Felibrige.  The  gallant 
Mathieu — heaven  knows  how  he  contrived  it — was 
never  seen  except  at  the  hours  of  food  or  recreation. 
On  account  of  his  already  grown-up  air,  though  not 
more  than  sixteen,  and  certainly  backward  in  his 
studies,  he  had  been  allowed  a  room  on  the  top 
story  under  the  pretext  that  he  could  thus  work 
more  freely,  and  there  in  his  attic,  the  walls  of 
which  he  had  decorated  with  pictures,  nude 
figures  and  plaster  casts  of  Pradier,  all  day  long  he 
dreamed  and  smoked,  made  verses,  and,  a  good 
part  of  the  time,  leant  out  of  the  window,  watching 
the  people  below,  or  the  sparrows  carrying  food  to 
their  young  under  the  eaves.  Then  he  would  j  oke, 
rather  broadly,  with  Mariette  the  chamber-maid, 
ogle  the  master's  daughter,  and,  when  he  descended 
from  his  heights,  relate  to  us  all  sorts  of  gossip. 

But  on  one  subject  he  always  took  himself 
seriously,  and  that  was  his  patent  of  nobility  : 

"  My  ancestors  were  marquises,"  he  told  us 
gravely,  "  Marquises  of  Montredon.  At  the  time 
of  the  Revolution,  my  grandfather  gave  up  his 
title,  and  afterwards,  finding  himself  ruined,  he 

H 


114  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

would  not  resume  it  since  he  could  not  keep  it 
up  properly." 

There  was  always  something  romantic  and 
elusive  in  the  existence  of  Mathieu.  He  would 
disappear  at  times  like  the  cats  who  go  to  Rome. 

In  vain  we  would  call  him  :    "  Mathieu  !  " 

But  no  Mathieu  would  appear.  Where  was  he  ? 
Up  there  among  the  tiles,  and  over  the  house-tops 
he  would  make  his  way  to  the  trysts  he  held,  so  he 
told  us,  with  a  girl  beautiful  as  the  day. 

On  one  occasion,  while  we  were  all  watching 
the  procession  of  the  Fete-Dieu  at  Pont-Troue, 
Mathieu  said  to  me  : 

"  Frederic,  shall  I  show  you  my  beloved  ?  " 

"  Rather  !  "  I  replied  promptly. 

"  Very  well,"  said  he.  "  Now  look,  when  the 
young  choir-maidens  pass,  shrouded  in  their 
white  tulle  veils,  notice  they  will  all  wear  a  flower 
pinned  in  the  middle  of  their  dress,  but  one,  you 
will  see,  fair  as  a  thread  of  gold,  she  will  wear  her 
flower  at  the  side.  .  .  .  See,"  he  cried  presently, 
"  there  she  is  !  " 

1  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  she  is  a  star  !  "  I  cried 
with  enthusiasm.  "  How  have  you  managed  to 
make  a  conquest  of  such  a  lovely  girl  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you.  She  is  the  daughter  of  the 
confectioner  at  the  Carretterie.  From  time  tQ 


THREE   EARLY   FELIBRES        115 

time  I  went  there  to  buy  some  peppermint  drops 
or  pastry-fingers — in  this  way  I  arrived  at  making 
myself  known  to  the  dear  child,  as  the  Marquis  de 
Montredon,  and  one  day  when  she  was  alone  in  the 
shop,  I  said  to  her  :  '  Beauteous  maiden,  if  only  I 
could  know  that  you  are  as  foolish  as  I  am,  I  would 
propose  an  excursion/ 

"  '  Where  ?  '  she  inquired. 

"  f  To  the  moon/  I  answered. 

"  She  burst  out  laughing,  but  I  continued  : 
'  This  is  how  it  could  be  done.  You,  my  darling, 
would  mount  to  the  terrace  which  runs  along  the 
top  of  your  house,  just  at  any  hour  when  you 
could  or  you  would,  and  I,  who  lay  my  heart  and 
my  fortune  at  your  feet,  would  meet  you,  and 
there  beneath  the  sky  I  would  cull  for  you  the 
flowers  of  love/ 

"  And  so  it  came  to  pass.  At  the  top  of  my 
beloved  one's  house,  as  in  many  others,  there  is  a 
platform  where  they  dry  the  linen.  I  have  nothing 
to  do  but  climb  on  the  roof,  and  from  gutter-spout 
to  gutter-spout  I  go  to  find  my  fair  one,  who  there 
spreads  or  folds  the  washing.  Then,  hand  in  hand, 
lip  against  lip,  but  always  courteously  as  between 
lady  and  cavalier,  we  are  in  Paradise." 

And  thus  it  was  that  our  Anselme,  future  Felibre 
of  the  Kisses,  studied  his  Breviary  of  Love,  and 


n6  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

passed  his  classes  in  gentle  ease  on  the  house-tops 
of  Avignon. 

At  the  Royal  College,  where  we  attended  the 
history  classes,  there  was  never  any  question  of 
modern  politics.  But  Sergeant  Monnier,  one  of 
our  masters,  an  enthusiastic  Republican,  could 
not  resist  taking  upon  himself  this  instruction. 
During  the  recreation  hour,  he  would  walk  up 
and  down  the  courtyard,  a  history  of  the  Revolu- 
tion in  his  hand,  working  himself  up  as  he  read 
aloud,  gesticulating,  swearing,  and  shouting  with 
enthusiasm. 

"Now  this  is  fine  !  Listen  to  this !  Oh,  they  were 
grand  men !  Camille  Desmoulins,  Mirabeau,  Bailly, 
Virgniaud,  Danton,  Saint-Just,  Boisset-d'Anglas  ! 
We  are  worms  in  this  day,  by  all  the  gods !  besides 
those  giants  of  the  National  Convention  !  " 

"  Oh,  very  grand  indeed,  your  mock  giants  !  " 
Roumanille  would  answer  when  he  happened 
to  be  there.  "Cut-throats,  over-throwers  of  the 
Crucifix,  unnatural  monsters,  ever  devouring  one 
another !  Why,  Bonaparte,  when  he  wanted 
them,  brought  them  up  like  pigs  in  the  market !  " 

And  so  they  would  attack  each  other  until  the 
easy-going  Mathieu  appeared  on  the  scene  and 
made  peace  by  causing  both  to  join  in  a  laugh  at 
some  absurdity  of  his  own. 


THREE   EARLY  FELIBRES         117 

About  this  time  Roumanille,  in  order  to  supple- 
ment his  little  emolument,  had  taken  a  post  as 
reader  in  Sequin's  printing  house,  and,  thanks  to 
this  position,  he  was  able  to  have  his  first  volume 
of  verses,  "Les  Paquerettes,"  printed  there  at  small 
cost.  While  he  corrected  his  proofs,  he  would 
regale  us  with  these  poems,  much  to  our  delight. 

Thus  one  day  succeeded  another  in  these  simple 
and  familiar  surroundings,  till  in  the  month  of 
August  1847  I  finished  my  studies,  and,  happy  as 
a  foal  released  and  turned  out  to  grass,  I  bade  fare- 
well to  Monsieur  Dupuy's  school  and  returned 
home  to  the  farm. 

But  before  leaving  the  pontifical  city,  I  must  say 
one  word  about  the  religious  pomps  and  shows 
which,  in  our  young  day,  were  celebrated  in  high 
state  at  Avignon  for  a  fortnight  at  a  time.  Notre 
Dame-de-Dom  (the  cathedral),  and  the  four 
parishes,  Saint- Agricol,  Saint-Pierre,  Saint-Didier, 
and  Saint-Symphorien,  rivalled  each  other  in  their 
splendour. 

So  soon  as  the  sacristan,  ringing  his  bell,  had 
gone  along  the  streets  proclaiming  where  the 
Host,  borne  beneath  the  dais,  was  to  pass,  all  the 
town ^  set  to  work  sweeping,  watering,  strewing 
green  boughs,  and  erected  decorations.  From  the 


n8  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

balconies  of  the  rich  were  hung  tapestries  of  em- 
boidered  silks  and  damasks,  the  poor  from  their 
windows  hung  out  coverings  of  patchwork,  their 
rugs  and  quilts.  At  the  Portail-Maillanais  and  in 
the  low  quarters  of  the  city,  they  covered  the  walls 
with  white  sheets  and  adorned  the  pavements 
with  a  litter  of  boxwood.  Street  altars  were 
raised  at  intervals,  high  as  pyramids,  adorned  with 
candelabrums  and  vases  of  flowers.  All  the  people, 
sitting  outside  their  houses  on  chairs,  awaited  the 
procession  and  ate  little  cakes. 

The  young  men  of  the  mercantile  and  artisan 
classes  walked  about,  swaggering  and  eyeing  the 
young  girls,  or  throwing  them  roses  as  they  sat 
beneath  the  awnings,  while  all  along  the  streets 
the  scent  of  incense  filled  the  air. 

At  last  came  the  procession,  headed  by  the 
beadle  clad  all  in  red,  and  followed  by  a  train  of 
white-robed  virgins,  the  confraternities,  monks 
and  priests,  choirs  and  musicians,  threading  their 
way  slowly  to  the  beating  of  tambourines,  and 
one  heard  as  they  passed  the  low  murmur  of  the 
devout  reciting  their  rosaries. 

Then,  while  an  impressive  silence  reigned 
everywhere,  all  prostrated  themselves,  and  the 
officiating  priest  elevated  the  Host  beneath  a 
shower  of  yellow  broom. 


THREE  EARLY  FELIBRES        119 

But  one  of  the  most  striking  things  was  the 
procession  of  Penitents,  which  began  after  sunset 
by  the  light  of  torches.  And  especially  that  of  the 
White  Penitents,  wearing  their  cowls  and  cloaks, 
and  marching  past  step  by  step,  like  ghosts, 
carrying,  some  of  them,  small  tabernacles,  others 
reliquaries  or  bearded  busts,  others  burning  per- 
fumes, or  an  enormous  eye  in  a  triangle,  or  a 
serpent  twisted  round  a  tree — one  might  have 
imagined  them  to  be  an  Indian  procession  of 
Brahmins. 

These  Orders  dated  from  the  time  of  the  League 
and  the  Western  Schism,  and  the  heads  and 
dignitaries  of  these  confraternities  were  taken 
from  the  noblest  families  in  Avignon.  Aubanel, 
one  of  our  great  Felibres,  was  all  his  life  a  zealous 
White  Penitent,  and,  at  his  death,  was  buried  in 
the  habit  of  the  brotherhood. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
HOW  I  TOOK  MY  DEGREE 

"  WELL  now/'  said  my  father,  "  have  you 
finished  ?  " 

"  I  have  finished,  so  far,"  I  replied,  "  only  .  .  . 
I  will  now  have  to  go  to  Nimes  and  take  my 
bachelor's  degree — a  step  which  gives  me  a  certain 
amount  of  apprehension." 

"  Forward  then — quick  march  !  When  I  was  a 
soldier,  my  son,  we  had  harder  steps  than  that  to 
take  before  the  Siege  of  Figuieres,"  said  my  sire. 

So  I  made  my  preparations  forthwith  for  the 
j  ourney  to  Nimes,  where  at  that  time  the  degrees 
were  taken.  My  mother  folded  up  my  Sunday 
coat  and  two  white  shirts  in  a  big  check  hand- 
kerchief fastened  together  with  four  pins.  My 
father  presented  me  with  a  small  linen  bag  con- 
taining crowns  to  the  amount  of  ^6,  and  added 
the  caution  : 

"  Take  thou  care  neither  to  lose  nor  to  squander 
them." 

My  bundle  under  my  arm,  hat  cocked  over  one 
ear,  and  a  vine-stick  in  my  hand,  I  then  departed. 


HOW  I   TOOK   MY   DEGREE       121 

Arrived  at  Nimes,  I  met  a  crowd  of  other 
students  from  all  the  neighbourhood,  come  up, 
like  myself,  to  take  their  degrees.  They  were  for 
the  most  part  accompanied  by  their  parents,  fine- 
looking  ladies  and  gentlemen  with  their  pockets 
full  of  letters  of  introduction,  one  to  the  Prefect, 
another  to  the  Grand  Vicar,  and  another  to  the 
head  examiner.  These  fortunate  youths  swaggered 
about  with  an  air  which  said  :  "  We  are  cocksure 
of  success." 

I  who  knew  not  a  soul  felt  myself  very  small  fry. 
All  my  hope  lay  in  Saint  Baudile,  the  patron  of 
Nimes  whose  votive  ribbon  I  had  worn  as  a  child, 
and  to  whom  I  now  addressed  a  fervent  petition 
that  he  would  incline  the  hearts  of  the  examiners 
towards  me. 

We  were  shut  up  in  a  big  bare  room  of  the  Hotel 
de  Ville,  and  there  an  old  professor  dictated  to  us 
in  nasal  tones  some  Latin  verse.  He  terminated 
with  a  pinch  of  snuff,  and  the  announcement  that 
we  had  an  hour  in  which  to  render  the  Latin  into 
French. 

Full  of  zeal  we  set  to  work.  With  the  aid  of  the 
dictionary,  the  task  was  accomplished,  and  at  the 
termination  of  the  hour  our  snuff-taker  collected 
the  papers  and  dismissed  us  for  the  day. 

The  students  dispersed  all  over  the  town  and 


122  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

I  found  myself  standing  there  alone  in  the  street, 
my  small  bundle  under  my  arm  and  vine-stick  in 
hand.  The  first  thing  was  to  find  a  lodging,  some 
inn  not  too  ruinous  yet  passably  comfortable. 
As  I  had  plenty  of  time  on  my  hands,  I  made  the 
tour  of  Nimes  about  ten  times,  scanning  the 
hostelries  and  inns  with  critical  eye.  But  the 
hotels,  with  their  black-coated  flunkeys,  who  looked 
me  up  and  down  long  before  I  even  approached 
them,  and  the  airs  and  graces  of  the  fashionable 
folk  of  whom  I  saw  passing  glimpses,  made  me 
coil  up  into  my  shell. 

At  last  a  sign-board  caught  my  eye  with  the 
inscription,  "  Au  Petit-Saint-Jean."  Here  was 
something  familiar  at  last. 

The  name  made  me  at  once  feel  at  home.  Saint 
John  was  a  special  friend  with  us,  he  it  was  who 
brought  good  harvests,  also  we  grew  the  grass  of 
Saint  John,  ate  the  apples  of  Saint  John,  and 
celebrated  his  feast  with  bonfires.  I  entered  the 
little  inn  with  confidence  therefore,  a  confidence 
which  was  amply  justified. 

In  the  courtyard  were  covered  carts  and  trucks, 
while  groups  of  Provencales  stood  there  laughing 
and  gossiping.  I  stepped  into  the  dining-room 
and  sat  down  at  the  table.  The  room  was  crowded 
and  nearly  all  the  seats  occupied  by  market- 


HOW   I  TOOK   MY   DEGREE       123 

gardeners.  They  had  come  in  from  Saint-Remy, 
Chateau-Renard,  Barbentane,  for  the  weekly 
market,  and  were  all  well  acquainted.  Their 
conversation  related  entirely  to  their  business  : 

"  Well,  Benezet,"  said  one,  "  how  much  did 
your  mad- apples  fetch  to-day  ?  " 

"  Bad  luck ;  the  market  was  glutted — I  had  to 
give  them  away." 

"  And  the  leek-seed  ?  "  asked  another. 

"  There  is  a  fair  prospect  of  a  sale — if  the  rumour 
of  war  turns  out  true  they  will  use  it  for  making 
powder,  so  they  say." 

"  And  the  onions  ?  " 

"  They  went  off  at  once." 

"  And  the  pumpkins  ?  " 

"  Had  to  give  them  to  the  pigs." 

For  an  hour  1  listened  to  this  on  all  sides, 
eating  steadily  without  saying  a  word.  Then  my 
opposite  neighbour  addressed  me  : 

"  And  you,  young  man  ?  If  it  is  not  indiscreet, 
may  I  ask  if  you  are  in  the  gardening  line  ?  " 

"  I  replied  modestly  that  I  had  come  to  Nimes 
for  another  purpose,  namely,  to  pass  as  bachelor." 

The  company  turned  round  and  gazed  at  me 
with  interest. 

"What  did  he  say,"  they  asked  each  other; 
"  Bachelor  ?  He  must  have  said  '  battery ' 


124  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

hazarded  one — it  is  a  conscript,  any  one  can  see, 
and  he  wishes  to  get  into  the  battery." 

I  laughed  and  tried  to  explain  my  position  and 
the  ordeal  before  me  when  the  learned  professors 
would  put  me  through  my  paces  in  Latin,  Greek, 
mathematics,  chemistry,  astronomy,  philosophy, 
and  every  imaginable  branch  of  knowledge  besides. 
"  If  we  do  well  they  allow  us  to  become  lawyers, 
doctors,  judges,  even  sub-prefects,"  I  concluded. 

"  And  if  you  do  badly  ?  "  inquired  my  audience 
eagerly. 

"  We  are  sent  back  to  the  asses'  bench,"  I 
replied ;  "  to-morrow  I  shall  know  my  fate." 

"  Eh,  but  this  is  one  of  the  right  sort,"  they  cried 
in  chorus.  "  Suppose  we  all  remain  on  another 
day  to  see  whether  he  comes  through  all  right 
or  whether  he  is  left  in  the  hole.  Now,  what  are 
they  going  to  ask  you  to-morrow,  for  example  ?  " 

I  told  them  it  would  be  concerning  all  the  battles 
that  had  ever  been  fought  since  the  world  began, 
Jews,  Romans,  Saracens  ;  and  not  only  the  battles 
but  the  names  of  the  generals  who  took  part  in  them, 
the  kings  and  queens  reigning  at  the  time,  together 
with  their  children  and  even  their  bastards. 

"  But  how  then  can  the  learned  men  occupy 
themselves  with  such  trifles !  "  cried  my  new 
friends.  "It  is  very  evident  they  have  nothing 


HOW   I   TOOK    MY   DEGREE       125 

better  to  do.  If  they  had  to  get  up  and  hoe 
potatoes  every  morning  they  would  not  waste 
time  over  the  battles  of  the  Saracens,  who  are  dead 
and  gone,  or  the  bastards  of  Herod.  Well,  what 
else  do  they  ask  you  ?  " 

I  replied  that  I  should  be  required  also  to  know 
the  names  of  all  the  mountains  and  all  the  rivers 
in  the  world. 

Here  I  was  interrupted  by  a  gardener  from 
Saint-Remy  with  a  big  guttural  voice,  who  in- 
quired whether  I  knew  where  was  the  source  of 
the  Fountain  of  Vaucluse,  and  if  it  were  true  that 
seven  rivers,  each  of  them  big  enough  to  float  a 
ship,  sprang  from  that  fountain.  He  had  it  on 
good  authority  also — could  I  confirm  it  ? — that  a 
shepherd  had  let  fall  his  crook  in  the  water  at 
Vaucluse,  and  had  found  it  again  in  a  spring  at 
Saint-Remy  ! 

I  had  hardly  time  to  think  of  a  suitable  and 
judicious  answer  before  another  of  the  company 
posed  me  with  the  question  as  to  why  the  sea 
was  salt. 

Here  I  considered  myself  on  safe  ground,  and 
was  beginning  to  reel  off  in  airy  fashion  :  "  Because 
it  contains  sulphate  of  potassium,  sulphate  of 
magnesia,  chloride " 

"  No,  no,  that's  all  wrong,"   interrupted  my 


126  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

questioner.  "  It  was  a  fisherman  who  told  me — he 
was  from  Martigne  and  should  know.  The  sea  is 
salt  owing  to  the  many  ships  carrying  cargoes  of 
salt  which  have  been  wrecked  during  past  years." 

I  discreetly  gave  way  before  this  authority  and 
hastened  to  enumerate  other  subjects  on  which  I 
was  about  to  be  examined  by  the  professors,  such 
as  the  cause  of  thunder,  lightning,  frost  and  wind. 

"  Allow  me  to  interrupt  you,  young  man," 
broke  in  the  first  speaker  again.  '  You  should  be 
able  then  to  tell  us  from  whence  comes  the  mistral, 
that  accursed  mischievous  wind  of  our  country. 
I  have  always  heard  that  it  issues  from  a  hole  in 
a  certain  great  rock,  and  that  if  one  could  only 
cork  up  the  hole,  there  would  be  an  end  of  the 
mistral.  Now  that  would  be  an  invention  worth 
the  making  !  " 

"  The  Government  would  oppose  it,"  said 
another ;  "  if  it  were  not  for  the  mistral,  Provence 
would  be  the  garden  of  France  !  Nothing  would 
hold  us  back — we  should  become  too  rich  to  please 
the  rest." 

"  Finally,"  I  continued,  "  we  have  to  know  all 
about  the  number,  size,  and  distance  of  the  stars — 
how  many  miles  our  earth  is  from  the  sun,  &c." 

'  That  passes  everything,"   cried  a  native  of 
Noves.     "  Who  is  going  up  there  to  measure  the 


HOW  I  TOOK   MY  DEGREE        127 

distance  ?  Cannot  you  see,  young  man,  that  the 
professors  are  laughing  at  you  ?  A  pretty  science 
indeed  to  measure  the  miles  between  the  sun  and 
the  moon;  they  will  be  teaching  you  next  that 
pigeons  are  suckled  !  Now  if  you  would  tell  me  at 
what  quarter  of  the  moon  to  sow  celery  or  to  cure 
the  pig-disease,  I  would  say,  '  Here  we  have  a  real 
useful  science ' — but  all  this  boy  prates  of  is 
pure  rubbish  !  " 

The  rest  of  the  company,  however,  stood  up  for 
me  loyally,  declaring  that,  however,  questionable 
the  subjects  I  had  studied,  it  was  certain  I  must 
have  a  wonderful  head  to  have  stowed  away  such 
a  lot  inside. 

Some  of  the  girls  whispered  together,  with 
kindly  glances  of  sympathy  in  my  direction. 
"  Poor  little  chap,  how  pale  he  is — one  can  see 
all  that  reading  has  done  him  no  good — if  he  had 
passed  his  time  at  the  tail  of  the  plough  he  would 
have  more  colour  in  his  cheeks — and  what  is  the 
good  after  all  of  knowing  so  much  !  " 

"  Well,  comrades,"  cried  my  first  friend,  "  I 
vote  we  see  him  through  to  the  end,  this  lad  from 
Maillane !  If  we  were  at  a  bull-fight  we  should  wait 
to  see  who  got  the  prize,  or  at  least  the  cockade. 
— Let  us  stay  over  night  that  we  may  know  if 
he  passes  as  a  bachelor,  eh  ?  " 


128  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

"  Good,"  agreed  the  rest  in  chorus,  "  we  will 
wait  and  see  him  through  to  the  end." 

The  following  morning,  with  my  heart  in  my 
mouth,  I  returned  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  together 
with  the  other  candidates,  many  of  whom  I  noticed 
wore  a  far  less  confident  air  than  the  day  before. 
In  a  big  hall,  seated  before  a  long  table  piled  with 
papers  and  books,  were  five  great  and  learned  pro- 
fessors come  expressly  from  Montpellier  arrayed 
in  their  ermine-bordered  capes  and  black  caps. 
They  were  members  of  the  Faculty  of  Letters,  and 
among  them,  curiously  enough,  was  Monsieur 
Saint-Rene  Taillandier,  who,  a  few  years  later, 
was  to  become  the  warm  supporter  of  the  Felibre 
movement.  But  at  this  time  we  were,  of  course, 
strangers  to  each  other,  and  nothing  would  have 
more  surprised  the  illustrious  professor  than  had 
he  known  that  the  country  lad  who  stood  stammer- 
ing before  him  was  one  day  to  be  numbered  among 
his  best  friends. 

I  was  wild  with  joy — I  had  passed  !  I  went  off 
down  into  the  town  as  though  borne  along  by 
angels.  It  was  broiling  hot,  and  I  remember  I 
was  thirsty.  As  I  passed  the  cafes,  swinging  my 
little  vine-stick  high  in  the  air,  I  panted  at  the  sight 
of  the  glasses  of  foaming  beer,  but  I  was  such  a 
novice  in  the  ways  of  the  world  that  I  had  never 


HOW  I   TOOK  MY  DEGREE       129 

yet  set    foot   inside   a  cafe,    and    I   dared    not 
go  in. 

So  I  continued  my  triumphal  march  round  the 
town,  wearing  an  air  of  such  radiant  happiness 
and  satisfaction  that  the  very  passers-by  nudged 
one  another  and  observed  :  "  He  has  evidently 
got  his  degree — that  one !  " 

When  at  last  I  came  upon  a  drinking-fountain 
and  quenched  my  thirst  in  the  fresh  cool  water, 
I  would  not  have  changed  places  with  the  '  King  of 
Paris.' 

But  the  finest  thing  of  all  was  on  my  return  to 
the  "  Petit-Saint-Jean,"  where  my  friends  the 
gardeners  awaited  me  impatiently.  On  seeing  me, 
glowing  with  joy  enough  to  disperse  a  fog,  they 
shouted  :  "  He  has  passed !  " 

Men,  women,  girls,  came  rushing  out,  and  there 
followed  a  grand  handshaking  and  embracing 
all  round.  One  would  have  said  manna  had  fallen 
from  heaven. 

Then  my  friend  from  Saint-Remy  took  up  the 
speech.  His  eyes  were  wet  with  emotion. 

"  Maillanais  !  "  he  addressed  me,  "  we  are  all 
pleased  with  you.  You  have  shown  these  little 
professor  gentlemen  that  not  only  ants,  but  men, 
can  be  born  of  the  soil.  Come,  children,  let  us 
all  have  a  turn  at  the  farandole." 

i 


130  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

Then  taking  hands,  there  in  the  courtyard  of 
the  inn,  we  all  farandoled  with  a  will.  After  that 
we  dined  with  equal  heartiness,  eating,  drinking 
and  singing,  till  the  time  came  to  start  for  home. 

It  is  fifty-eight  years  ago.  But  I  never  visit 
Nimes  and  see  in  the  distance  the  sign  of  the 
"  Petit-Saint-Jean "  without  that  scene  of  my 
youth  coming  back  to  me  fresh  as  yesterday, 
and  a  warm  feeling  arises  in  my  heart  for 
those  dear  people  who  first  made  me  experience 
the  good  fellowship  of  my  kind  and  the  joys  of 
popularity. 


CHAPTER  IX 

DAME  RIQUELLE  AND  THE  REPUBLIC  OF  1848 

THE  winter  of  1847-1848  began  happily  enough. 
The  people  settled  down  quietly  again  to  their 
business  of  making  a  tolerably  good  harvest,  and 
the  hateful  subject  of  politics  was  dropped,  thank 
God.  In  our  country  of  Maillane  we  even  started, 
for  our  amusement,  some  representations  of  popu- 
lar tragedies  and  comedies,  into  which  I  threw 
myself  with  all  the  fervour  of  my  seventeen  years. 
Then  in  the  month  of  February,  suddenly  the 
Revolution  burst  upon  us,  and  good-bye  to  all 
the  gentle  arts  of  blessed  peace-time. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  village,  in  a  small  vine- 
clad  cottage,  there  dwelt  at  this  time  a  worthy  old 
body  named  Riquelle.  She  wore  the  Arlesian 
dress  of  bygone  days,  her  large  white  coife  sur- 
mounted by  a  broad-brimmed  black  felt  hat,  while 
a  white  band,  passing  under  the  chin,  framed  her 
cheeks.  By  her  distaff  and  the  produce  of  her 
small  plot  of  ground  she  supported  herself,  but  one 
saw  from  the  care  she  took  of  her  person,  as  well 
as  by  her  speech,  that  she  had  known  better  days. 


132  MEMOIRS  OF   MISTRAL 

My  first  recollection  of  Riquelle  dated  back  to 
when,  at  about  seven  years  old,  I  was  in  the  habit 
of  passing  her  door  on  my  way  to  school.  Seated 
on  the  little  bench  at  her  threshold,  her  fingers  busy 
knitting,  she  would  call  to  me  : 

"  Have  you  not  some  fine  tomatoes  on  your 
farm,  my  little  lad  ?  Bring  me  one  next  time 
you  come  along.'1 

Time  after  time  she  asked  me  this,  and  I,  boy- 
like,  invariably  forgot  all  about  it,  till  one  day  I 
mentioned  to  my  father  that  old  Riquelle  never 
saw  me  without  asking  for  tomatoes. 

"  The  accursed  old  dame,"  growled  my  father 
angrily ;  "  tell  her  they  are  not  ripe,  do  you  hear, 
neither  have  they  ripened  for  many  a  long  year." 

The  next  time  I  saw  Riquelle  I  gave  her  this 
message,  and  she  dropped  the  subject. 

Many  years  later,  the  day  after  the  Proclama- 
tion of  the  Revolution  of  1848,  coming  to  the 
village  to  inquire  the  latest  news,  the  first  person 
I  saw  was  Dame  Riquelle  standing  there  in  her 
doorway,  all  alert  and  animated,  with  a  great  topaz 
ring  blazing  on  her  finger. 

"  He,  but  the  tomatoes  have  ripened  this 
year,"  she  cried  out  to  me.  "They  are  going  to 
plant  the  '  trees  of  liberty/  *  and  we  shall  all  eat  of 
*  Poles  crowned  with  Phrygian  caps. 


THE   REPUBLIC  OF   1848         133 

those  good  apples  of  Paradise.  .  .  .  Oh,  Sainte- 
Marianne,  I  never  thought  to  live  to  see  it 
again !  Frederic,  my  boy,  become  a  Republican." 

I  remarked  on  the  fine  ring  she  wore. 

"  Ha,  yes,  it  is  a  fine  ring,"  she  rejoined. 
"  Fancy — I  have  not  worn  it  since  the  day 
Bonaparte  quitted  this  country  for  the  island  of 
Elba !  A  friend  gave  me  this  ring  in  the  days — 
ah,  what  days  those  were — when  we  all  danced 
the  '  Carmagnole.' " 

So  saying  she  raised  her  skirt,  and,  making  a  step 
or  two  of  the  old  dance,  entered  her  cottage  chuck- 
ling softly  at  the  recollection  of  those  bygone  days. 

But  when  I  recounted  the  incident  to  my  father 
his  recollections  were  of  a  graver  kind. 

"  I  also  saw  the  Republic,"  he  said,  "  and  it  is 
to  be  hoped  the  atrocious  things  which  took  place 
then  will  never  be  repeated.  They  killed  the  King 
Louis  XVI.,  and  the  beautiful  Queen,  his  wife, 
besides  princesses,  priests,  and  numberless  good 
people  of  all  sorts.  Then  foreign  kings  combined 
and  made  war  upon  France.  In  order  to  defend 
the  Republic,  there  was  a  general  conscription. 
All  were  called  out,  the  lame,  the  blind,  the  halt — 
not  a  man  but  had  to  enlist.  I  remember  how  we 
met  a  regiment  of  Allobrogians  on  their  way  to 
Toulon.  One  of  them  seized  my  young  brother, 


134  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

and  placing  his  naked  sword  across  the  boy's  neck 
— he  was  but  twelve  years  old — commanded  him  to 
cry  out  '  Long  live  the  Republic/  or  he  would 
finish  him  off.  The  boy  did  as  he  was  told,  but 
the  fright  killed  him.  The  nobles  and  the  good 
priests,  all  were  suspected,  and  those  who  could 
emigrate  did  so,  in  order  to  escape  the  guillotine. 
The  Abbe  Riousset,  disguised  as  a  shepherd,  made 
his  way  to  Piedmont  with  the  flocks  of  Monsieur 
de  Lubieres.  We  managed  to  save  Monsieur 
Victorin  Cartier,  whose  lands  we  farmed.  For 
three  months  we  hid  him  in  a  cave  we  dug  out 
under  the  wine-casks,  and  whenever  the  municipal 
officers  or  the  police  of  the  district  came  down  upon 
us  to  count  the  lambs  we  had  in  the  fold,  and  the 
loaves  of  bread  in  the  pans,  in  accordance  with  the 
law,  my  poor  mother  would  hasten  to  fry  a  big 
omelette  at  the  stove. 

"  When  once  they  had  eaten  and  drunk  their  fill, 
they  would  forget,  or  pretend  to  do  so,  to  take 
further  perquisites,  and  off  they  would  go,  carrying 
great  branches  of  laurel  with  which  to  greet  the 
victorious  armies  of  the  Republic.  The  chateaux 
were  pillaged,  the  very  dove-cotes  demolished, 
the  bells  melted  down,  and  the  crosses  broken. 
In  the  churces  they  piled  up  great  mounds  of 
earth  on  which  they  planted  pine-trees,  oaks  and 


THE   REPUBLIC   OF   1848          135 

junipers.  The  church  at  Maillane  was  turned  into 
a  club,  and  if  you  refused  to  go  to  their  meetings 
you  were  at  once  denounced  and  notified  as 
'  suspect.'  Our  priest,  who  happened  unfor- 
tunately to  be  a  coward  and  a  traitor,  announced 
one  day  from  the  pulpit  that  all  he  had  hitherto 
preached  was  a  lie.  He  roused  such  indignation 
that,  had  not  every  man  lived  in  fear  of  his  neigh- 
bour, they  would  have  stoned  him.  It  was  this 
same  priest  who  another  time  wound  up  his  dis- 
course with  the  injunction  that  any  one  who  knew 
of  or  aided  in  hiding  a  '  suspect/  would  be  held 
guilty  of  mortal  sin  unless  he  denounced  such 
a  one  at  once  to  the  Commune.  Finally,  they 
ended  by  abolishing  all  observance  of  Sundays 
and  feast-days,  and  instead,  every  tenth  day,  in 
great  pomp  they  adored  the  Goddess  of  Reason 
— and  would  you  know  who  was  the  goddess  at 
Maillane  ?  Why,  none  other  than  the  old  dame 
Riquelle  !  " 

We  all  exclaimed  in  surprise. 

"  Riquelle,"  continued  my  father,  "  was  at  that 
time  eighteen  years  old.  A  handsome,  well-grown 
girl,  one  of  the  most  admired  in  all  the  country. 
I  was  about  the  same  age.  Her  father  was  Mayor 
of  Maillane  and  by  trade  a  shoemaker — he  made 
me  a  pair  of  shoes  I  remember  wearing  when  I 


136  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

joined  the  army.  Well,  imagine  it — I  saw  this 
same  Riquelle  in  the  garments,  or  rather  the  lack 
of  garments,  of  a  heathen  goddess,  a  red  cap  on 
her  head,  seated  on  the  altar  of  the  church." 

All  this  my  father  recounted  at  supper  one 
evening  about  the  year  1848. 

Some  eleven  years  after,  I,  finding  myself  in 
Paris  just  after  the  publication  of  Mireille, 
was  dining  at  the  house  of  the  hospitable  banker 
Milland,  he  who  delighted  to  assemble  every  week 
at  his  board  a  gathering  of  artists,  savants,  and 
men  of  letters.  We  were  about  fifty,  and  I  had 
the  honour  of  sitting  on  one  side  of  our  charming 
hostess,  while  M6ry  was  on  the  other.  Towards 
the  end  of  dinner  an  old  man  very  simply  attired 
addressed  me  in  Provencal  from  the  further  end 
of  the  table,  inquiring  if  I  came  from  Maillane.  It 
was  the  father  of  my  host,  and  I  rose  and  sat 
down  beside  him. 

"  Do  you  happen  to  know  the  daughter  of 
the  once  famous  Mayor  of  Maillane,  Jacques 
Riquelle  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Riquelle  the  goddess  ?  Aye,  indeed,"  I 
answered  ;  "  we  are  right  good  friends." 

'  Well,  fifty  years  ago,"  said  the  old  man, 
"  when  I  went  to  Maillane  to  sell  horses  and 
mules " 


THE   REPUBLIC   OF   1848          137 

'  You  gave  her  a  topaz  ring  !  "  I  cried  with  a 
sudden  inspiration. 

The  old  fellow  shook  his  sides  with  laughter  and 
answered,  delighted  :  "  What,  she  told  you  about 
that  ?  Ah,  my  dear  sir " 

But  at  this  moment  we  were  interrupted  by  the 
banker,  who,  in  accordance  with  his  custom,  after 
every  meal  came  to  pay  his  respects  to  his  worthy 
father,  whereupon  the  latter,  placing  his  hands 
patriarchal  fashion  on  his  son's  head,  bestowed 
on  him  his  benediction. 

But  to  return  to  my  own  story.  In  spite  of  the 
views  held  by  my  family,  this  outburst  of  liberty 
and  enterprise,  which  breaks  down  the  old  fences 
when  a  revolution  is  rife,  had  found  me  already 
aflame  and  eager  to  follow  the  onrush.  At  the 
first  proclamation  signed  with  the  illustrious 
name  of  Lamartine  my  muse  awoke  and  burst 
forth  into  fiery  song,  which  the  local  papers  of 
Aries  and  Avignon  hastened  to  publish  : 

Reveillez-vous  enfants  de  la  Gironde, 
Et  tressaillez  dans  vos  sepulcres  froids  ; 

La  liberte  va  rajeunir  le  monde  .  .  . 
Guerre  eternelle  entre  nous  et  les  rois. 

A  mad  enthusiasm  seized  me  for  all  humanitarian 
and  liberal  ideas ;  and  my  Republicanism,  while 
it  scandalised  the  Royalists  of  Maillane,  who 


138  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

regarded  me  as  a  turncoat,  delighted  the  Repub- 
licans, who,  being  in  the  minority,  were  en- 
chanted at  getting  me  to  join  them  in  shouting 
the  "  Marseillaise." 

And  here,  in  Provence,  as  elsewhere,  all  this 
brought  in  its  train  broils  and  internal  divisions. 
The  Reds  proclaimed  their  sentiments  by  wearing 
a  belt  and  scarf  of  scarlet,  while  the  Whites  wore 
green.  The  former  carried  a  buttonhole  of  thyme, 
emblem  of  the  mountain,  and  the  latter  a  sprig 
of  the  royal  lily.  The  Republicans  planted  the 
"  trees  of  liberty  "  at  every  corner,  and  by  night  the 
Royalists  kicked  them  down.  Thereupon  followed 
riots  and  knife-thrusts  ;  till  before  long  this  good 
people,  these  Provenceaux  of  the  same  race,  who 
a  month  before  had  been  living  in  brotherly  love 
and  good  fellowship,  were  all  ready  to  make  mince- 
meat of  one  another  for  a  party  wrangle  that  led 
to  nothing. 

All  students  of  the  same  year  took  sides  and 
split  into  rival  parties,  neither  of  which  ever  lost 
an  opportunity  of  a  skirmish.  Every  evening  we 
Reds,  after  washing  down  our  omelettes  with  plenty 
of  good  wine,  issued  from  the  inn  according  to  the 
correct  village  fashion,  in  shirt  sleeves,  with  a 
napkin  round  our  necks.  Down  the  street  we 
went  to  the  sound  of  the  tambour,  dancing  the 


THE   REPUBLIC  OF  1848         139 

"Carmagnole"   and  singing  at  the  pitch  of  our 
voices  the  latest  song  in  vogue. 

We  finished  the  evening  usually  by  keeping 
high  carnival,  and  yelling  "  Long  live  Marianne/'  * 
as  we  waved  high  our  red  belts. 

One  fine  day,  as  I  appeared  in  the  morning, 
none  too  early,  after  an  evening  of  this  kind,  I 
found  my  father  awaiting  me.  "  Come  this 
way,  Frederic,"  he  said  in  his  most  serious  and 
impressive  manner,  "  I  wish  to  speak  to  you." 

"  You  are  in  for  it  this  time,  Frederic,"  thought 
I  to  myself ;  "  now  all  the  fat  is  in  the  fire  !  "  Fol- 
lowing him  in  silence,  he  led  the  way  to  a  quiet 
spot  at  the  back  of  the  farm,  where  he  made  me 
sit  down  on  the  bank  by  his  side. 

"  What  is  this  they  tell  me  ? "  he  began.  "  That 
you,  my  son,  have  joined  these  young  scamps 
who  go  about  yelling  '  Long  live  Marianne ' — 
that  you  dance  the  ( Carmagnole/  waving  your  red 
sash  ?  Ah,  Frederic,  you  are  young — know  you 
it  was  with  that  dance  and  those  same  cries  the 
Revolutionists  set  up  the  scaffold  ?  Not  content 
with  having  published  in  all  the  papers  a  song  in 

which  you  pour  contempt  on  all  kings But 

what  harm  have  they  done  you,  may  I  ask,  these 
unfortunate  kings  ?  " 

*  Signifying  the  Republic. 


140  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

I  must  confess  I  found  this  question  somewhat 
difficult  to  answer,  and  my  sire  continued  : 

"  Monsieur  Durand-Maillane,  a  learned  man, 
since  he  it  was  who  presided  at  the  famous  Con- 
vention, and  wise  as  he  was  learned,  refused  to 
sign  the  death  warrant  of  the  King,  and  speaking 
one  day  to  his  nephew  Pelissier,  also  member  of 
the  Convention,  he  warned  him :  '  Pelissier,' 
said  he,  '  thou  art  young  and  thou  wilt  surely  see 
the  day  when  the  people  will  have  to  pay  with 
many  thousands  of  heads  for  this  death  of  their 
King.'  A  prophecy  which  was  verified  only  too 
fully  by  twenty  years  of  ruthless  war." 

"  But,"  I  protested,  "  this  Republic  desires 
harm  to  no  man.  They  have  just  abolished 
capital  punishment  for  political  offenders.  Some 
of  the  first  names  in  France  figure  in  the  pro- 
visionary  Government — the  astronomer  Arago,  the 
great  poet  Lamartine ;  our  t  trees  of  liberty '  *  are 
blessed  by  the  priests  themselves.  And,  let  me 
ask  you,  my  father,"  I  insisted,  "is  it  not  a  fact 
that  before  1789  the  aristocrats  oppressed  the 
people  somewhat  beyond  endurance  ?  " 

"  Well,"  conceded  my  worthy  sire,  "  I  will  not 
deny  there  were  abuses,  great  abuses — I  can  cite 
you  an  example.  One  day — I  must  have  been  about 
i  *  Poles  crowned  with  Phrygian  caps. 


THE   REPUBLIC   OF  1848          141 

fourteen  years  old — I  was  coming  from  Saint- 
Re"my  with  a  waggon  of  straw  trusses.  The 
mistral  blew  with  such  force  I  failed  to  hear  a 
voice  behind  calling  to  me  to  make  way  for  a 
carriage  to  pass.  The  owner,  who  was  a  priest  of 
the  nobility,  Monsieur  de  Verclos,  managed  at 
last  to  pass  me,  and  as  he  did  so  gave  me  a  lash 
with  his  whip  across  the  face,  which  covered  me 
with  blood.  There  were  some  peasants  pasturing 
close  by,  and  their  indignation  was  such  at  this 
action  that  they  fell  upon  the  man  of  God,  in  spite 
of  his  Order  being  at  that  time  held  sacred,  and  beat 
him  without  mercy.  Ah,  undoubtedly,"  reflected 
my  father,  "  there  were  some  bad  specimens  among 
them,  and  the  Revolution  just  at  first  attracted  a 
good  many  of  us.  But  gradually  everything  went 
wrong  and  as  usual  the  good  paid  for  the  bad." 


And  so  with  the  Revolution  of  1848 ;  all  at  first 
appeared  to  be  on  good  and  straight  lines.  We 
Provenceaux  were  represented  in  the  National 
Assembly  by  such  first-class  men  as  Berryer, 
Lamartine,  Lamennais,  Beranger,  Lacordaire, 
Garnier-Pages,  Marie,  and  a  poet  of  the  people 
named  Astouin.  But  the  party-spirited  reaction- 
aries soon  poisoned  everything;  the  butcheries 
and  massacres  of  June  horrified  the  nation.  The 


142  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

moderates  grew  cold,  the  extremists  became  veno- 
mous, and  all  my  fair  young  visions  of  a  pla- 
tonic  Republic  were  overcast  with  gloomy  doubt. 
Happily  light  from  another  quarter  shed  its 
beams  on  my  soul.  Nature,  revealing  herself  in 
the  grand  order,  space  and  peace  of  the  rustic 
life,  opened  her  arms  to  me ;  it  was  the  triumph 
of  Ceres. 

In  the  present  day,  when  machinery  has  almost 
obliterated  agriculture,  the  cultivation  of  the  soil 
is  losing  more  and  more  the  noble  aspect  of  that 
sacred  art  and  of  its  idyllic  character.  Now  at 
harvest  time  the  plains  are  covered  with  a  kind  of 
monster  spider  and  gigantic  crab,  which  scratch 
up  the  ground  with  their  claws,  and  cut  down 
the  grain  with  cutlasses,  and  bind  the  sheaves 
with  wire  ;  then  follow  other  monsters  snorting 
steam,  a  sort  of  Tarascon  dragon  who  seizes  on 
the  fallen  wheat,  cuts  the  straw,  sifts  the  grain,  and 
shakes  out  the  ears  of  corn.  All  this  is  done  in 
latest  American  style,  a  dull  matter  of  business, 
with  never  a  song  to  make  toil  a  gladness,  amid  a 
whirl  of  noise,  dust,  and  hideous  smoke, and  the  con- 
stant dread,  if  you  are  not  constantly  on  the  watch, 
that  the  monster  will  snap  off  one  of  your  limbs. 
This  is  Progress,  the  fatal  Reaper,  against  whom 
it  is  useless  to  contend,  bitter  result  of  science, 


THE   REPUBLIC   OF   1848          143 

that  tree  of  knowledge  whose  fruit  is  both  good 
and  evil. 

But  at  the  time  of  which  I  write,  the  old  methods 
were  still  in  use,  with  all  the  picturesque  apparatus 
of  classic  times. 

So  soon  as  the  corn  took  on  a  shade  of  apricot, 
throughout  the  Commune  of  Aries,  a  messenger 
went  the  round  of  the  mountain  villages  blowing 
his  horn  and  crying  :  '  This  is  to  give  notice  that 
the  corn  in  Aries  is  ripening.'* 

Thereupon  the  mountaineers,  in  groups  of  threes 
and  fours,  with  their  wives  and  daughters,  their 
donkeys  and  mules,  made  ready  to  descend  to  the 
plains  for  harvesting.  A  couple  of  harvesters, 
together  with  a  boy  or  young  girl  to  stack  the 
sheaves,  made  up  a  solque,  and  the  men  hired 
themselves  out  in  gangs  of  so  many  solques, 
who  undertook  the  field  by  contract.  At  the  head 
of  the  group  walked  the  chief,  making  a  pathway 
through  the  corn,  while  another,  called  the  bailiff, 
organised  and  directed  the  work. 

As  in  the  days  of  Cincinnatus,  Cato  and  Virgil, 
we  reaped  with  the  sickle,  the  fingers  of  the  right 
hand  protected  by  a  shield  of  twisted  reeds  or 
rushes. 

At  Aries,  about  the  time  of  Saint  John's  Day, 
thousands  of  these  harvest  labourers  might  be  seen 


144  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

assembed  in  the  Place  des  Homines,  their  scythes 
slung  on  their  backs,  standing  and  lying  about 
while  waiting  to  be  hired. 

In  the  mountain  districts  a  man  who  had  never 
done  his  harvesting  in  the  plains  of  Aries  found  it 
hard,  so  they  said,  to  get  any  girl  to  marry  him, 
and  it  was  on  this  custom  Felix  Gras  founded  the 
story  of  his  epic  poem  "  Les  Charbonniers." 

On  our  own  farm  we  hired  from  seven  to  eight 
of  these  groups  every  year  at  harvest-time.  It 
was  a  fine  upset  throughout  the  house  when  these 
folk  arrived.  All  sorts  of  special  utensils  were 
unearthed  for  the  occasion,  barrels  made  of  willow 
wood,  enormous  earthenware  pans,  big  pots  and 
jugs  for  wine,  a  whole  battery  of  the  rough  pottery 
made  at  Apt.  It  was  a  time  of  constant  feasting 
and  gaiety,  above  all  when  we  lit  the  bonfires  on 
Saint  John's  Day  and  danced  round  them  singing 
the  harvest  songs. 

Every  day  at  dawn  the  reapers  ranged  themselves 
in  line,  and  so  soon  as  the  chief  had  opened  out  a 
pathway  through  the  cornfield  all  glistening  with 
morning  dew,  they  swung  their  blades,  and  as  they 
slowly  advanced  down  fell  the  golden  corn.  The 
sheaf-binders,  most  of  whom  were  young  girls  in 
the  freshness  of  their  youthful  bloom,  followed 
after,  bending  low  over  the  fallen  grain,  laughing 


THE  REPUBLIC  OF  1848  145 

and  jesting  with  a  gaiety  it  rejoiced  one's  heart  to 
see.  Then  as  the  sun  appeared  bathing  the  sky 
all  rosy  red  and  sending  forth  a  glory  of  golden 
rays,  the  chief,  raising  high  in  the  air  his  scythe, 
would  cry,  "  Hail  to  the  new  day,"  and  all  the 
scythes  would  follow  suit.  Having  thus  saluted 
the  newly  risen  sun,  again  they  fell  to  work,  the 
cornfield  bowing  down  as  they  advanced  with 
rhythmic  harmonious  movement  of  their  bare 
arms.  From  time  to  time  the  bailiff  cried  out, 
mustering  his  troop  for  another  turn.  At  last, 
after  four  hours'  vigorous  work,  the  chief  would 
give  the  word  for  all  to  rest.  Whereupon,  after 
washing  the  handles  of  their  scythes  in  the  nearest 
stream,  they  would  sit  down  on  the  sheaves  in  the 
middle  of  the  stubble,  and  take  their  first  repast. 

It  was  my  work,  with  the  aid  of  Babache,  our 
old  mule,  to  take  round  the  provisions  in  rope 
baskets. 

The  harvesters  had  five  meals  a  day,  beginning 
with  the  breakfast  at  seven  o'clock,  which  con- 
sisted of  anchovies  spread  on  bread  steeped  in  oil 
and  vinegar,  together  with  raw  onions,  an  invari- 
able accompaniment.  At  ten  o'clock  they  had 
the  "  big  drink,"  as  it  was  called,  with  hard- 
boiled  eggs  and  cheese  ;  at  one  o'clock  dinner, 
soup  and  vegetables ;  at  four  a  large  salad,  with 

K 


146  MEMOIRS  OF  MISTRAL 

which  were  eaten  crusts  rubbed  with  garlic  ;  and 
finally  the  supper,  consisting  either  of  pork  or 
mutton  and  sometimes  an  omelette  strongly 
flavoured  with  onion,  a  favourite  harvesting  dish. 
In  the  field  they  drank  by  turns  from  a  barrel 
taken  round  by  the  chief  and  swung  on  a  pole, 
which  he  balanced  on  the  shoulder  of  the  one 
drinking.  For  their  meals  in  the  field  they  had 
one  plate  between  three,  each  one  helping  himself 
with  a  big  wooden  spoon. 

When  the  reapers'  work  was  done,  came  the 
gleaners  to  gather  the  stray  ears  left  among  the 
stubble.  Troops  of  these  women  went  the  rounds 
of  the  farms,  sleeping  at  night  under  small  tents, 
which  served  to  protect  them  from  the  mosquito. 
A  third  of  their  gleanings,  according  to  the  usage 
in  the  country  of  Aries,  went  always  to  the  hospital. 

Such  were  the  people,  fine  children  of  the  soil, 
who  were  not  only  my  models  but  my  teachers 
in  the  art  of  poetry.  It  was  in  this  company,  the 
grand  sun  of  Provence  streaming  down  on  me  as  I 
lay  full  length  beneath  a  willow-tree,  that  I  learnt 
to  pipe  and  sing  such  songs  as  "  Les  Moissons" 
and  others  in  "  Les  lies  d'Or." 


MADEMOISELLE  LOUISE 

THAT  year,  my  parents,  seeing  me  gaping  idly  at 
the  moon,  sent  me  to  Aix  to  study  law,  for  these 
good  souls  were  wise  enough  to  know  that  my 
bachelor's  degree  was  but  an  insufficient  guarantee 
either  of  wisdom  or  of  science.  But  before  my 
departure  for  the  Sextine  city  I  met  with  an 
adventure  which  both  interested  and  touched 
me. 

In  a  neighbouring  farmhouse,  a  family  from  the 
town  had  settled,  and  going  to  church  we  sometimes 
met  the  daughters.  Towards  the  end  of  summer, 
they,  with  their  mother,  came  to  call,  and  my 
mother  appropriately  offered  them  curds  ;  for  we 
had  on  our  farm  fine  herds  of  cattle,  and  milk  in 
abundance.  My  mother  herself  superintended  the 
dairy,  making  not  only  the  curds  but  the  cream 
cheeses,  those  small  cheeses  of  the  country  of 
Aries,  so  much  appreciated  by  Beland  de  la 
Belaudiere,  the  Provencal  poet  in  the  time  of  the 
Valois  kings : 


148  MEMOIRS  OF  MISTRAL 

A  la  ville  des  Baux,  pour  un  florin  vaillant 
Vous  avez  un  tablier  plein  de  fromages 
Qui  fond  au  gosier  comme  sucre  fin.* 

Like  the  shepherdesses  sung  by  Virgil,  each  day 
my  mother,  carrying  on  her  hip  the  earthenware 
pot  and  skimmer,  descended  to  the  dairy  and  filled 
up  the  various  moulds  with  the  fine  flaking  curds 
from  her  pot.  The  cheeses  made,  she  left  them  to 
drain  upon  the  osiers,  which  I  myself  delighted  to 
cut  for  her  down  by  the  stream. 

So  on  this  occasion  we  partook  with  these  young 
girls  of  a  bowl  of  curds.  One  of  them,  about  my 
own  age,  with  a  face  which  recalled  those  Greek 
profiles  sculptured  on  the  ancient  monuments  in 
the  plains  of  Saint-Re"my,  regarded  me  tenderly 
with  her  great  dark  eyes.  Her  name  was  Louise. 

We  visited  the  peacocks,  with  their  rainbow- 
hued  tails  outspread,  the  bees  in  their  long  row 
of  sheltered  hives,  the  bleating  lambs  in  the  fold, 
the  well  with  its  pent-roof  supported  by  pillars 
of  stone  —  everything,  in  fact,  which  could 
interest  them.  Louise  seemed  to  move  in  a  dream 
of  delight. 

When  we  were  in  the  garden,  while  my  mother 

*  In  the  city  of  the  Baux  for  a  florin's  value 
You  have  an  apron  full  of  cheeses 
Which  melt  in  the  mouth  like  fine  sugar. 


MADEMOISELLE  LOUISE          149 

chatted  with  hers,  and  gathered  pears  for  our 
guests,  Louise  and  I  sat  down  together  on  the 
parapet  of  the  old  well. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  something,"  began  Made- 
moiselle Louise.  "Do  you  remember  a  little  frock, 
a  muslin  frock  that  your  mother  took  to  you 
one  day  when  you  were  at  school  at  St.  Michel 
de  Frigolet  ?  " 

"  Yes — to  act  my  part  in  the  piece  called  Les 
Enfants  d'Edouard." 

"  Well  then — that  dress,  monsieur,  was  mine." 

"  But  did  they  not  return  it  to  you  ?  "  I  asked 
like  an  imbecile. 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  said,  a  little  confused,  "  I  only 
spoke  of  it  as — one  might  of  anything." 

Then  her  mother  called  her. 

Louise  gave  me  her  hand ;  such  a  cold  hand, 
and  since  the  hour  was  late  they  went  home. 

A  week  later,  towards  sunset,  Mademoiselle 
Louise  appeared  again  at  our  door,  this  time 
accompanied  only  by  a  friend. 

"  Good  afternoon,"  said  she.  "  We  have  come 
to  buy  some  of  those  juicy  pears  you  gave  us  the 
other  day  from  your  garden." 

My  mother  invited  them  to  be  seated,  but 
Louise  declined,  saying  it  was  too  late,  and  I 
accompanied  them  to  gather  the  pears. 


150  MEMOIRS  OF  MISTRAL 

Louise's  friend,  Courrade  by  name,  was  from 
Saint-Remy,  a  handsome  girl,  with  thick  brown 
hair  encircled  by  her  Arlesienne  ribbon  ;  charming 
as  Louise  was,  she  acted  imprudently  in  bringing 
such  a  friend. 

Arrived  in  the  orchard,  while  I  lowered  the 
branches,  Courrade,  raising  her  pretty  round  arms, 
bare  to  the  elbow,  set  to  work  and  picked  the 
pears.  Louise,  looking  very  pale,  encouraged  her, 
and  bade  her  choose  the  most  ripe.  My  heart  was 
already  stirred,  though  by  which  of  the  girls  I 
could  not  say,  when  Louise,  as  if  she  had  some- 
thing to  communicate,  drew  me  to  one  side,  and  we 
sauntered  slowly  towards  the  group  of  cypresses, 
where,  side  by  side,  we  sat  down  on  a  stone  bench, 
I  somewhat  embarrassed,  she  regarding  me  with 
emotion. 

"  Frederic,"  she  began,  "  the  other  day  I  spoke 
to  you  of  a  frock  which  at  the  age  of  eleven  I  lent 
you  to  wear  in  the  play  at  St.  Michel  de  Frigolet. 
.  .  .  You  have  read  the  story  of  Dejanire  and 
Hercules  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  answered  laughing,  "  and  also  of  the 
tunic  which  the  beautiful  Dejanire  gave  to  poor 
Hercules,  and  which  set  his  blood  on  fire." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  young  girl,  "  in  this  case  it  is 
just  the  reverse,  for  that  little  white  muslin  dress 


MADEMOISELLE  LOUISE          151 

which  you  had  touched — which  you  had  worn — 
from  the  moment  I  put  it  on  once  more,  I  loved 
you.  Do  not  be  angry  with  me  for  this  confession, 
which  I  know  must  appear  strange,  even  mad,  in 
your  eyes.  Ah,  do  not  be  angry,"  she  begged, 
weeping,  "  for  this  divine  fire,  conveyed  to  me  by 
the  fatal  dress,  and  which  from  that  time  has  never 
ceased  to  consume  me,  I  have  hidden  deep  within 
my  heart,  oh,  Frederic,  for  seven  long  years  !  " 

I  took  her  little  feverish  hand  in  mine,  and  would 
have  replied  by  folding  her  in  my  arms ;  but 
gently  she  pushed  me  from  her  : 

"  No,  Frederic,"  she  said,  "  as  yet  we  cannot 
say  whether  the  poem  of  which  I  have  sung 
the  first  stanza  will  ever  go  further.  ...  I  must 
now  leave  you.  Think  on  what  I  have  said,  and 
remember  that  since  I  am  one  of  those  who  cannot 
change,  whatever  your  answer  may  be,  my  heart 
is  given  to  you  for  ever." 

So  saying  she  rose,  and  running  up  to  her  friend 
Courrade,  called  to  her  to  bring  the  pears  that  they 
might  weigh  and  pay  for  them. 

We  returned  to  the  house,  and  having  settled 
for  the  pears  they  left.  My  feelings  were  difficult 
to  analyse.  I  found  myself  both  charmed  and 
disturbed  by  this  sudden  appearance  of  young 
maidens  upon  the  scene,  both  of  whom  in  a  certain 


152  MEMOIRS  OF  MISTRAL 

fashion  appealed  strongly  to  me.  Long  I  strolled 
among  the  trees,  watching  the  sun's  rays  grow 
slanting  and  the  doves  fly  home  to  roost,  and  in 
spite  of  a  feeling  of  exhilaration,  and  even  happi- 
ness, on  sounding  myself  I  perceived  that  I  was  in 
a  rare  fix. 

The  "  Disciple  of  Venus  "  says  truly,  "  Love  will 
not  brook  command."  This  heroic  young  maid, 
armed  with  nought  but  her  grace  and  her  vir- 
ginity, was  she  not  justified  in  thinking  to  come 
off  victorious  ?  Charming  as  she  was,  and  her- 
self charmed  by  her  long  dream  of  love,  no  wonder 
if  she  thought  that  in  the  words  of  Dante,  "  Love 
that  has  no  lover  pardons  love,"  and  that  a  young 
man  living  as  I  was  an  isolated  country  life,  would 
respond  with  emotion  at  the  first  cooing  note. 
She  did  not  realise  that  love,  being  the  gift  and 
abandonment  of  all  one's  being,  no  sooner  does 
the  soul  feel  itself  pursued  with  the  object  of 
capture,  than  it  flies  off  like  the  bird  to  whom  the 
charmer  calls  in  vain. 

So  it  was  that  in  presence  of  this  chain  of 
flowers,  this  rose,  who  unfolded  all  her  sweetness 
for  me,  I  coiled  up  with  reserve,  whereas  towards 
the  other,  who,  in  her  capacity  of  devoted  friend 
and  confidante,  seemed  to  avoid  my  approach  and 
my  glance,  I  felt  myself  irresistibly  drawn.  For 


MADEMOISELLE  LOUISE          153 

at  that  age  I  must  confess  to  having  already 
formed  very  definite  ideas  on  the  subject  of  love 
and  the  beloved.  One  day,  either  in  the  near  or  the 
far  future,  I  told  myself,  I  should  meet  her,  my 
fate,  in  that  same  land  of  Aries,  a  superb  country 
maiden,  wearing  the  Arlesian  costume  like  a  queen, 
galloping  on  her  steed  across  the  plains  of  the  Crau, 
a  trident  in  her  hand ;  after  a  long  and  ardent 
wooing,  one  fine  day  my  song  of  love  would  win 
her,  and  in  triumph  I  should  conduct  her  to  our 
farm,  where,  like  my  mother  before  her,  she  should 
reign  over  her  pastoral  subjects.  Already  as  I 
look  back,  I  see  that  I  dreamt  of  my  "  Mireille," 
and  this  ideal  of  blooming  beauty  already  conceived 
by  me,  though  only  in  the  silence  and  secrecy  of 
my  heart,  told  greatly  against  the  chances  of 
poor  Mademoiselle  Louise,  who,  according  to  the 
standard  of  my  vision,  was  far  too  much  of  a 
young  lady. 

After  this  we  started  a  correspondence,  or  rather 
an  interchange  of  love  on  one  side  and  friendship 
on  the  other,  which  lasted  over  a  period  of  some 
three  years  or  more — all  the  time  I  was  at  Aix  in 
fact.  On  my  side  I  endeavoured  gallantly  to 
humour  her  sentiment  for  myself,  so  that,  little  by 
little  if  I  could,  I  might  change  it  to  a  feeling  less 
embarrassing  for  both  of  us.  But  Louise,  in  spite 


154  MEMOIRS  OF  MISTRAL 

of  this,  grew  ever  more  and  more  fixed  in  her 
infatuation,  winging  to  me  one  missive  after 
another  of  despairing  farewell.  The  following  was 
the  last  of  these  letters  : 

"  I  have  loved  but  once,  and  I  shall  die,  I  vow 
to  you,  with  the  name  of  Frederic  engraven  on  my 
heart.  Ah  !  the  sleepless  nights  I  have  passed 
thinking  of  my  hapless  fate  !  And  yesterday, 
reading  over  your  vain  attempts  at  consolation, 
the  effort  to  keep  back  my  weeping  almost  made 
my  heart  break.  The  doctor  announced  that  I 
had  fever,  a  nervous  breakdown,  and  prescribed 
rest.  How  I  rejoiced  to  think  I  was  indeed 
seriously  ill !  I  felt  even  happy  at  the  thought 
of  dying  and  awaiting  you  in  that  other  world 
where  your  letter  declares  we  shall  surely  meet.  .  .  . 
But  hear  me,  Frederic,  I  beseech  you,  since  it  is 
indeed  true  that  before  long  you  will  hear  I  have 
quitted  this  world,  shed  I  beg,  one  tear  of  regret 
for  me.  Two  years  ago  I  made  you  a  promise  : 
it  was  to  pray  God  every  day  to  give  you  happiness 
— perfect  happiness;  never  have  I  failed  to  offer 
up  that  prayer,  and  I  shall  never  fail  while  life 
lasts.  On  your  side,  I  beseech  you,  therefore,  do 
not  forget  me,  Frederic ;  but  when  you  see  beneath 
your  feet  the  withered  yellow  leaves,  let  them 


MADEMOISELLE   LOUISE          155 

remind  you  of  my  young  life  withered  by  tears, 
dried  up  by  grief,  and  when  you  pass  by  a  brooklet, 
listen  to  its  gentle  murmur,  and  hear  in  that 
plaintive  sound  the  echo  of  my  love,  and  when 
some  little  bird  brushes  you  with  its  soft  wing,  let 
that  tiny  messenger  say  to  you  that  I  am  ever  near 
you.  Forget  not  your  poor  Louise,  oh,  Frederic, 
I  pray  you." 

This  was  the  final  adieu  sent  to  me  by  the  poor 
young  girl,  sealed  with  her  own  blood  and  accom- 
panied by  a  medallion  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  covered 
with  her  kisses,  and  encased  in  a  small  velvet  cover 
on  which  she  had  embroidered  my  initials  with  her 
chestnut  hair,  encircled  by  a  wreath  of  ivy,  and 
the  words,  "  Behold  in  me  the  strand  of  ivy,  ever 
my  love  embraces  thee." 

Poor  dear  Louise  !  Not  long  after  this  she  took 
the  veil  and  became  a  nun,  and  in  -a  few  years 
died.  Even  now  it  moves  me  to  melancholy  when 
I  think  of  her  young  life  withered  before  its  bloom 
by  this  ill-starred  love.  To  her  memory  I  dedicate 
this  little  record,  and  offer  it  to  her  Manes  hovering 
perhaps  still  around  me. 

The  town  of  Aix  (Head  of  Justice  was  the  old 
significance),  where  I  betook  myself  to  make  my 


156  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

law  studies,  by  reason  of  its  honourable  past  as 
capital  of  Provence  and  parliamentary  city, 
possessed  an  air  of  soberness  and  dignity  somewhat 
in  contradiction  with  the  Provengal  atmosphere. 
The  stately  air  given  by  the  shady  trees  of  the 
beautiful  public  drive,  the  fountains,  monuments 
and  palaces  of  bygone  days,  together  with  the 
numerous  black-robed  magistrates,  lawyers  and 
professors  to  be  seen  in  the  streets,  all  contributed 
towards  the  severe  and  rather  cold  aspect  which 
characterised  this  city. 

In  my  time,  however,  this  impression  was 
but  a  surface  one,  and  among  the  students  there 
was  a  gaiety  of  race,  an  intimate  good-fellowship, 
quite  in  keeping  with  the  traditions  left  by  the 
good  King  Rene  of  old. 

I  remember  even  worthy  counsellors  and  judges 
of  the  Court  who,  when  at  home,  either  in  town 
or  country  house,  amused  themselves  and  their 
friends  playing  the  tambourine ;  *  while  grave  and 
learned  doctors,  such  as  d' Astros,  brother  of  the 
Cardinal  of  that  name,  delivered  at  the  Academy 
lectures  in  the  simple  and  joyous  tongue  of  their 
native  Proven9al.  One  of  the  best  methods  this 
for  keeping  alive  the  national  soul,  and  which  in 
Aix  has  never  lapsed.  Count  Portalis,  for  example, 

*  The  national  instrument  of  Provence. 


MADEMOISELLE   LOUISE          157 

one  of  the  grand  jurists  of  the  Napoleon  Code, 
wrote  a  play  in  Provencal.  Then  there  was 
Monsieur  Diouloufet,  famous  librarian  of  the 
French  Athens  *  (as  Aix  once  called  herself),  who, 
in  the  reign  of  Louis  XVII I.,  sang  in  the  language 
of  Provence  his  poems  of  "  Les  Magnans "  ; 
while  Monsieur  Mignet,  the  illustrious  historian 
and  academician,  came  every  year  to  Aix  on  pur- 
pose to  play  bowls,  the  national  game  of  his  youth, 
his  panacea  for  restoring  and  renovating  all  men 
being  "  to  drink  in  the  sunshine  of  Provence, 
speak  the  language  of  Provence,  eat  a  ragodt  of 
Provence,  and  every  morning  play  a  game  of 
bowls." 

I  had  been  in  Aix  a  few  months  when,  walking 
one  afternoon  near  the  Hot  Springs,  to  my  joy  I 
suddenly  caught  sight  of  the  profile,  and  quite 
unmistakable  nose,  of  my  friend  Anselme  Mathieu 
of  Chateauneuf. 

In  his  usual  casual  way  he  greeted  me.  '  This 
water  is  really  hot — it  is  not  pretence  my  dear 
fellow,  it  positively  smokes." 

"  When  did  you  arrive  ?  "  I  asked  him  with  a 
hearty  grip  of  the  hand.  "  And  what  good  wind 
blew  you  here  ?  " 

"  The  night  before  last,"   said  he.     "  Faith,  I 
*  Athene  du  Midi. 


158  MEMOIRS  OF  MISTRAL 

said  to  myself,  since  Mistral  is  off  to  Aix  to  read 
for  law,  I  had  better  do  likewise." 

I  congratulated  him  on  the  happy  inspiration, 
and  inquired  whether  he  had  taken  his  bachelor's 
degree,  without  which  it  was  useless  to  think  of 
being  admitted  to  the  Law  Faculty. 

"  Oh  yes,"  he  laughed.  "  I  passed  out  with 
the  wooden  spoon  !  But  if  they  refuse  me  a 
diploma  in  the  courts  of  law,  no  man  can  prevent 
my  taking  one  in  the  courts  of  love  !  Why,  only 
to-day,"  he  continued,  "  I  made  the  acquaintance 
of  a  charming  young  laundress,  a  little  sunburnt 
it  is  true,  but  with  lips  like  a  cherry,  teeth  like  a 
puppy,  unruly  curls  peeping  from  out  her  white 
cap,  a  bare  throat,  little  turned-up  nose,  dimpled 
arms " 

"  Hold,  villain,"  I  remonstrated,  "  it  strikes 
me  your  eyes  were  not  idle." 

"  Frederic,  you  are  on  a  wrong  scent,"  he 
answered  solemnly.  "  Think  not  that  I,  a  scion 
of  the  noble  house  of  Montredon,  irresponsible 
though  I  may  be,  would  lose  my  heart  to  a 
little  chit  of  a  laundress — but,  I  don't  know 
if  you  share  this  feeling,  I  find  it  impossible  to 
pass  a  pretty  face  without  turning  round  to 
gaze  at  it.  In  short,  after  a  little  conversa- 
tion with  the  girl,  we  arranged  that  she  should 


ANSELM  MATHIEU. 


THKOUORE  AUBANEL. 


MADEMOISELLE   LOUISE          159 

wash  for  me  and  come  to  fetch  my  things  next 
week  !  " 

I  upbraided  him  for  an  unscrupulous  scoundrel, 
but  he  interrupted  me  again,  saying  I  had  not  yet 
grasped  the  situation,  and  begging  me  to  listen  to 
the  end  of  his  tale. 

"  While  chatting  with  my  little  friend,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  I  noticed  she  was  rubbing  away  at  a 
dainty  chemise  of  finest  linen,  trimmed  with  lace. 
It  excited  my  curiosity  and  admiration — I  in- 
quired to  whom  it  belonged  ?  '  This  chemise/  the 
young  girl  answered,  '  belongs  to  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  ladies  in  Aix — a  baronne  of  some  thirty 
summers,  married,  poor  thing,  to  an  old  cur- 
mudgeon who  is  a  judge  of  the  Courts  and  jealous 
as  a  Turk/  *  She  must  be  bored  to  death,'  I  cried. 
'  Ah  yes/  she  replied,  '  she  is  bored  to  death,  poor 
lady.  There  she  sits  on  her  balcony  waiting,  one 
would  say,  for  some  gallant  gentleman  who  shall 
come  to  the  rescue.'  I  inquired  her  name,  but 
here  she  demurred,  saying  she  was  but  the  laun- 
dress, and  had  no  right  to  mix  herself  up  in  affairs 
that  did  not  concern  her.  Not  a  word  more  could 
I  get  out  of  her  ;  but,"  added  Mathieu  hopefully, 
"  when  she  comes  for  my  washing  next  week,  it 
is  a  pity  if  I  don't  make  her  open  her  lips  by 
bestowing  two  or  three  good  kisses  upon  them." 


160  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

"  And  when  you  know  the  name  of  the  lady, 
what  then  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  What  then  ?  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  I  have 
bread  in  the  cupboard  for  three  years  !  While 
you  other  poor  devils  are  grinding  away  at 
your  law  studies,  I,  like  the  troubadours  of  old 
Provence,  shall  at  my  leisure  study  beneath  my 
lady's  balcony  the  gentle  art  of  the  laws  of  love." 

And  this  was,  in  effect,  precisely  the  task  under- 
taken and  accomplished  by  the  Chevalier  Mathieu 
during  the  three  following  years  at  Aix. 

Ah,  the  good  days  we  spent  in  excursions  all 
over  the  country  !  Now  a  picnic  by  the  Bridge  of 
Arc,  in  a  dell  just  off  the  dusty  high  road  to  Mar- 
seilles, or  a  party  to  Tholonet  to  sniff  up  the  fine 
fumes  of  the  wine  of  Langesse.  Another  time  it 
was  a  students'  duel  in  the  valley  of  Infernets, 
the  pistols  charged  with  pellets  of  mud ;  or  again  a 
merry  company  on  the  diligence  to  Toulon,  through 
the  lovely  woods  of  Cuge  and  across  the  Gorge  of 
Ollioules.  The  students  of  Aix  had  led  much  the 
same  life  since  the  good  old  days  of  the  Popes  of 
Avignon  and  the  time  of  Queen  Joan. 

While  we  were  thus  amusing  ourselves  in  the 
noble  city  of  the  Counts  of  Provence,  Roumanille, 
more  wise  and  staid,  was  publishing  at  Avignon, 


in  the  periodical  called  the  Commune,  admirable 
dialogues,  full  of  wisdom,  good  sense  and  courage, 
as,  for  example,  "  Le  Thym,"  "  Un  Rouge  et  un 
Blanc,"  "  Les  Pretres,"  work  which  both  popu- 
larised and  dignified  the  Provengal  tongue.  From 
this  he  proceeded,  on  the  strength  of  the  reputa- 
tion won  by  his  "  Paquerettes "  and  his  daring 
pamphlets,  to  convoke,  through  the  means  of 
his  journal,  all  Provengal  singers  of  the  day,  old 
and  young.  The  outcome  of  this  rallying  move- 
ment was  a  publication  in  1852,  Les  Provenpales, 
presented  to  the  public  with  an  introduction  of 
ardent  enthusiasm  by  the  learned  and  eminent 
savant,  Monsieur  Saint-Rene  Taillandier,  then 
residing  at  Montpellier. 

In  this  first  venture  appeared  contributions  from 
d' Astros  and  Gaut  of  Aix ;  Aubert,  Bellot, 
Benedit,  Bourelly,  and  Barthelemy  of  Marseilles  ; 
Bondin,  Cassan,  Gi£ra  of  Avignon;  Tarascon 
was  represented  by  Gautier,  and  Beaucaire  by 
Bonnet;  Chateauneuf  by  Anselme  Mathieu ;  Car- 
pentras  by  Reybaud  and  Dupuy;  Cavaillon  by 
Castil-Blaze,  then  there  was  Garcin,  warm-hearted 

son  of  that  Marshal  d' Alliens  mentioned  in  Mireille . 

> 

and  Crousillat  of  Salon,  besides  a  group  of  Lan- 
guedoc  poets — Moquin-Tandon,  Peyrottes,  Lafare- 
Alois ;  and  Jasmin,  who  contributed  one  poem. 

L 


162  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

The  principal  contributor,  however,  was 
Roumanille,  then  in  full  flower  of  production,  his 
last  work,  entitled  "Les  Creches,"  having  elicited 
from  the  great  Sainte-Beuve  the  declaration  that 
it  was  worthy  of  Klopstock. 

Theodore  Aubanel,  then  in  his  twenty-second 
year,  began  to  send  forth  his  first  master-strokes, 
"Le  9  Thermidor,"  "  Les  Faucheurs,"  "A  la 
Toussaint."  And  finally,  I  also,  aflame  with  the 
fine  ardour  of  patriotism,  sent  in  my  ten 
short  pieces,  among  which  were  "  Amertume," 
"  Le  Mistral,"  "  Une  Course  de  Taureaux,"  and  a 
"Bonjour  a  Tous,"  which  last  notified  our  new 
start. 

But  to  return  to  the  gay  Mathieu  and  his  love 
adventure  with  the  lady  of  Aix,  the  conclusion 
of  which  I  left  untold. 

Whenever  I  came  across  this  student  in  the 
laws  of  love,  I  inquired  without  fail  of  his  progress. 

His  patience  and  perseverance,  he  announced 
to  me  one  day,  had  been  rewarded,  and  Lelette,  the 
little  laundress,  at  last  consented  to  show  him  the 
house  of  the  fair  baronne.  Beneath  her  balcony 
he  had  from  that  time  paced  to  and  fro,  unweary- 
ingly,  until  finally  observed  by  the  object  of  his 
adoration — a  lady,  declared  Mathieu,  of  matchless 


MADEMOISELLE   LOUISE          163 

beauty — and  the  sequel  proved  of  good  taste  also, 
since  the  other  evening,  smiling  charmingly  upon 
her  devoted  cavalier,  she  had  let  fall  from  the 
heaven  above  him — a  flower. 

Thereupon  Mathieu  produced  a  faded  carna- 
tion in  proof  of  his  tale,  and  gazing  with  tender 
rapture,  blew  a  kiss  skywards. 

After  this,  several  months  elapsed,  without  my 
catching  a  sight  of  Mathieu.  I  resolved  to  go  and 
look  him  up. 

Mounting  to  his  attic,  I  found  my  friend  reclining 
with  one  foot  on  a  chair. 

Bidding  me  a  hearty  welcome,  he  poured  forth 
his  latest  news  and  the  history  of  his  accident. 

"  Imagine,  my  dear  fellow — I  had  hit  upon  a 
plan  for  a  nocturnal  visit  to  my  divine  lady. 
Everything  was  arranged — Lelette,  my  little 
laundress,  lent  us  a  hand.  I  entered  the  garden 
at  eleven  o'clock,  and  by  the  trellis  of  the  rose- 
tree  which  creeps  to  her  window,  I  climbed  up. 
You  may  imagine  how  my  heart  beat !  For  she, 
my  sovereign  lady,  had  promised  to  stretch  out  her 
dainty  hand  that  I  might  press  thereon  my  kisses. 
Heavens  ! — the  shutters  opened  softly — and  a 
hand,  my  Frederic,  a  hand  I  quickly  recognised 
was  not  that  of  my  adored,  shook  down  on  my 
upturned  nose — the  cinders  of  a  pipe  !  I  waited 


164  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

for  no  more,  but  sliding  to  the  ground,  I  fled. 
I  leapt  the  garden  wall,  and,  confound  it — sprained 
my  foot !  " 

He  laughed,  and  I  joined  him  till  we  nearly 
dislocated  our  jaws.  I  inquired  if  he  had  sent  for 
a  doctor  ?  That  office  he  informed  me  had  been 
undertaken  by  the  mother  of  Lelette — a  worthy 
dame  who  kept  a  tavern  near  the  Porte  d' Italic. 
This  old  body,  being  a  sorceress  in  her  way,  had 
steeped  the  sprained  foot  in  white  wine,  muttering 
weird  incantations  the  while,  and,  after  bandaging 
the  foot  tightly,  concluded  the  ceremony  by 
making  the  sign  of  the  cross  three  times  with  her 
great  toe. 

"So  here  I  am,"  said  Mathieu,  "  waiting  till 
Providence  sees  fit  to  heal  me  .  .  .  and  reading 
meanwhile  the  '  Paquerettes '  of  our  friend 
Roumanille.  The  time  does  not  hang  heavy,  for 
little  Lelette  brings  me  my  simple  fare  twice  a 
day,  and  in  default  of  ortolans  I  am  thankful 
for  sparrows." 

Whether  Mathieu,  well  named,  as  he  afterwards 
was,  the  "  Felibre  of  the  Kisses,"  drew  on  his 
gorgeous  imagination  for  the  whole  of  this  ro- 
mantic episode,  I  cannot  pretend  to  say ;  enough 
that  I  repeat  it  as  he  told  it  to  me. 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  RETURN  TO  THE  FARM 

I  HAD  now  become  a  full-blown  lawyer,  like  scores 
of  others,  and,  as  you  may  have  remarked,  I  did 
not  overwork  myself !  Proud  as  a  young  bird  that 
has  found  a  worm,  I  returned  home,  arriving  just 
at  the  hour  of  supper,  which  was  being  served  on 
the  stone  table  in  the  open,  under  the  vine  trellis, 
by  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun. 

"  Good  evening,  everybody ! "   I  cried. 

"  God  bless  you,  Frederic." 

"  Father,  mother,  it  is  all  right !  "  I  announced, 
"  and  I  have  really  finished  this  time  !  " 

"Well,  that  is  a  good  job!"  cried  Madeleine, 
the  young  Piedmontaise,  who  served  at  table. 

Then,  still  standing,  and  before  all  the  labourers, 
I  gave  an  account  of  my  last  undertaking.  As  I 
finished,  my  venerable  father  remarked  : 

"  Well,  my  boy,  I  have  now  done  my  duty  by 
you.  You  have  had  much  more  schooling  than  I 
ever  had.  It  is  now  for  you  to  choose  the  road 
that  suits  you — I  leave  you  free." 

"  Hearty  thanks,  my  father,"  I  answered. 


166  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

And  then  and  there — at  that  time  I  was  one  and 
twenty — with  my  foot  on  the  threshold  of  the 
paternal  home,  and  my  eyes  looking  towards  the 
Alpilles,  I  formed  the  resolution,  first,  to  raise  and 
revivify  in  Provence  the  sentiment  of  race  that  I 
saw  being  annihilated  by  the  false  and  unnatural 
education  of  all  the  schools ;  secondly,  to  pro- 
mote that  resurrection  by  the  restoration  of  the 
native  and  historic  language  of  the  country, 
against  which  the  schools  waged  war  to  the  death ; 
and  lastly,  to  make  that  language  popular  by 
illuminating  it  with  the  divine  flame  of  poetry. 

All  these  ideas  hummed  vaguely  in  my  soul. 
This  eddying  and  surging  of  the  Provengal  sap 
filled  my  being,  and,  free  from  all  conventional 
literary  influences,  strong  in  the  independence 
which  gave  me  wings,  and  assured  that  nothing 
could  now  deter  me,  the  sight  of  the  labourers 
one  evening,  singing  as  they  followed  the  plough 
in  the  furrow,  inspired  me  with  the  opening  song 
of  Mireille. 

This  poem,  the  child  of  love,  was  peaceably  and 
leisurely  brought  to  birth  under  the  influence  of 
the  warm  golden  sunshine  and  the  breath  of  the 
wide  sweeping  winds  of  Provence.  At  the  same 
time  I  took  over  the  charge  of  the  farm,  under 
the  direction  of  my  father,  who,  at  eighty  years  of 


THE  RETURN  TO  THE  FARM  167 

age,  had  become  blind.  It  was  a  life  well  suited 
to  me,  and  this  was  all  I  cared  for — to  be  happy 
in  my  home  and  with  certain  chosen  friends. 
We  were  indifferent  to  Paris  in  those  days  of 
innocence.  My  highest  ambition  was  that  Aries, 
which  rose  ever  on  my  horizon  as  did  Mantua 
on  that  of  Virgil,  should  one  day  recognise  my 
poetry  as  her  own. 

Thus,  thinking  only  of  the  country  people  of 
the  Crau  and  the  Camargue,  I  could  truly  say  in 
Mireille  : 

'  We  sing  but  for  you,  shepherds  and  people 
of  the  farms." 

I  had  no  definite  plan  in  commencing 
Mireille,  except  the  broad  lines  of  a  love-story 
between  two  beautiful  children  of  Provence, 
both  with  the  temperament  of  their  country 
though  of  different  ranks  in  life,  and  to  let  the 
ball  roll  in  the  unpremeditated  way  that  happens 
in  real  life,  apparently  at  the  pleasure  of  the  winds. 

Mireille,  the  happy  name  which  breathes  its 
own  poetry,  was  destined  to  be  that  of  my  heroine, 
for  I  had  heard  it  in  our  home  from  my  cradle, 
though  nowhere  else. 

When  old  Nanon,  my  maternal  grandmother, 
wished  to  compliment  one  of  her  daughters  she 
would  say  : 


168  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

"  That  is  Mireille,  the  beautiful  Mireille  of  my 
heart !  " 

And  my  mother  in  fun  would  say  sometimes 
of  a  young  girl : 

"  There,  do  you  see  her  ?  That  is  the  Mireille 
of  my  heart." 

But  when  I  questioned  concerning  Mireille,  no 
one  could  tell  me  anything  ;  hers  was  a  lost  history 
of  which  nothing  remained  but  the  name  of  the 
heroine,  and  a  gleam  of  beauty  lost  in  a  mist  of 
love.  It  was  enough,  however,  to  bring  good 
fortune  to  a  poem,  which  perhaps — who  can  tell  ? 
— was  the  reconstruction  of  a  true  romance, 
revealed  through  the  intuition  granted  to  the  poet. 

The  Judge's  Farm  was  at  this  time  the  best  of 
all  soils  for  the  growth  of  idyllic  poetry.  Was  not 
this  epic  of  Provence,  with  its  background  of  blue 
and  its  frame  of  the  Alpilles,  living  and  singing 
around  me  ?  Did  I  not  see  Mireille  passing,  not 
only  in  my  dreams  of  a  young  man,  but  also  in 
actual  person  ?  Now  in  the  sweet  village  maidens 
who  came  to  gather  mulberry  leaves  for  the  silk- 
worms, now  in  the  charming  white-coifed  hay- 
makers, gleaners  and  reapers  who  came  and  went 
through  the  corn,  the  hay,  the  olives  and  the  vines. 

And  the  actors  of  my  drama,  my  labourers, 
harvesters,  cowherds  and  shepherds,  did  they  not 


THE  RETURN  TO  THE  FARM   169 

gladden  my  eyes  from  early  morn  till  eve  ?  Could 
one  possibly  find  a  grander  prototype  for  my 
Master  Ramon  than  the  patriarch  Fra^ois  Mistral, 
he  whom  all  the  world,  even  my  mother,  called 
"  The  Master  "  ?  My  dear  father  !  Sometimes, 
when  the  work  was  pressing  and  help  was  needed, 
either  for  the  hay  or  to  draw  water  from  the  well, 
he  would  call  out,  "  Where  is  Frederic  ?  "  Perhaps 
at  that  moment  I  had  crept  away  under  a  shel- 
tering willow  in  pursuit  of  some  flying  rhyme, 
and  my  poor  mother  would  answer  : 

"  He  is  writing." 

And  at  once  the  stern  voice  of  the  good  man 
would  soften  as  he  said  : 

"  Then  do  not  disturb  him." 

For,  having  himself  read  nothing  but  the 
Scriptures  and  "  Don  Quixote,"  writing  in  his  eyes 
appeared  a  sort  of  religious  exercise. 

This  respect  of  the  unlettered  for  the  mystery 
of  the  pen  is  very  well  shown  in  the  opening  of 
one  of  our  popular  legends  : 

Monseigneur  Saint- Anselme  was  learned  and  wise, 
One  day,  by  his  writing,  he  rose  to  the  skies,  &c. 

Another  person  who,  without  knowing  it, 
influenced  my  epic  muse  was  our  old  cousin 
Tourette,  from  the  village  of  Mouries ;  a  sort  of 


170  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

colossus,  strong  of  limb  but  lame,  with  great 
leather  gaiters  over  his  boots ;  he  was  known  in  all 
that  part  as  "  The  Major,"  having,  in  1815,  served 
as  drum-major  in  the  National  Guards,  under  the 
command  of  the  Due  d'Angouleme,  he  who  wished 
to  arrest  Napoleon  on  his  return  from  the  Isle  of 
Elba.  "  The  Major  "  had,  in  his  youth,  dissipated 
his  fortune  by  gambling,  and  in  his  old  age,  reduced 
to  poverty,  he  came,  every  winter,  to  pass  some 
time  with  us  at  the  farm.  On  his  departure,  my 
father  always  saw  that  he  took  with  him  some 
bushels  of  corn.  During  the  summer  time  he 
travelled  over  the  Crau  and  the  Camargue,  now 
helping  the  shepherds  to  shear  the  sheep,  now 
the  mowers  of  the  marshes  to  bind  the  rushes, 
or  the  salters  to  collect  and  heap  up  the  salt. 
Certainly  no  one  could  equal  him  in  knowledge  of 
the  country  of  Aries  and  its  work.  He  knew  the 
names  of  every  farm,  and  every  pasture,  of  the  head 
shepherds,  and  of  each  stud  of  horses  or  of  wild 
bulls.  And  he  talked  of  it  all  with  an  eloquence, 
a  picturesqueness,  a  richness  of  Proven9al  expres- 
sion which  it  was  a  pleasure  to  hear.  Describing, 
for  instance,  the  Comte  de  Mailly  as  very  rich  in 
house  property,  he  would  say  :  "  He  possesses 
seven  acres  of  roofing." 

The  girls  who  were  engaged  for  the  olive  gather- 


THE  RETURN  TO  THE  FARM   171 

ing  at  Mouries  would  hire  him  to  tell  them  stories 
in  the  evenings.  They  gave  him,  I  think,  each  one, 
a  halfpenny  for  the  evening.  He  kept  them  in  fits 
of  laughter,  for  he  knew  all  the  stories,  more  or 
less  humorous,  that  from  one  to  another  were 
transmitted  among  the  people,  such  as  "  Jean  de 
la  Vache,"  "Jean  de  la  Mule,"  "  Jean  de  1'Ours," 
"Le  Doreur,"  &c. 

Directly  the  snow  began  to  fall  we  knew  "  The 
Major"  would  soon  make  his  appearance.  And 
he  never  failed. 

"  Good-day,  cousin." 

"  Cousin,  good-day." 

And  there  he  was.  His  hand  shaken  and  his 
stick  deposited,  unobtrusively  he  took  up  his 
accustomed  seat  in  his  corner,  and,  while  eating 
a  good  slice  of  bread  and  butter  and  cheese,  he 
would  give  us  the  news. 

Cousin  Tourette  being,  like  most  dreamers,  a  bit 
of  an  idler,  had  all  his  life  dreamt  of  a  remunerative 
post  where  there  would  be  very  little  work. 

"  I  should  like,"  he  told  us,  "  the  situation  of 
reckoner  of  cod-fish.  At  Marseilles,  for  instance, 
in  one  of  those  big  shops  where  they  unload,  a 
man  can,  while  seated,  earn,  so  I  am  told,  by 
counting  the  fish  in  dozens,  his  twelve  hundred 
francs  a  year  !  " 


172  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

Poor  old  Major!  He  died,  like  many  another, 
without  having  realised  his  cod-fish  dream. 

I  can  never  forget  either,  among  those  who 
helped  me  to  make  the  poetry  of  Mireille,  the 
woodcutter  Siboul,  a  fine  fellow  from  Montfrin, 
in  a  suit  of  velvet,  who  came  every  year  towards 
the  end  of  the  autumn  with  his  great  billhook 
to  trim  our  undergrowth  of  willow.  While  he 
worked  away  busily,  what  shrewd  observations 
he  would  make  to  me  about  the  Rhone,  its  currents, 
eddies,  lagoons  and  bays,  the  soil  and  the  islands  ! 
Also  about  the  animals  that  frequented  the  dikes, 
the  otters  that  lodged  in  the  hollow  trees,  the 
beavers  who  work  as  deftly  as  woodcutters,  the 
birds  who  suspend  their  nests  from  the  white 
poplars,  besides  endless  stories  of  the  osier- cutters 
and  basket-makers  of  Vallabreque  and  that 
district. 

My  chief  instructor,  however,  in  the  botany 
of  Provence  was  our  neighbour  Xavier,  a  peasant 
herbalist,  who  told  me  the  Provengal  names  and 
virtues  of  all  the  simples  and  herbs  of  Saint- Jean 
and  of  Saint-Roch.  And  thus  I  collected  such  a 
good  store  of  botanical  knowledge  that,  without 
wishing  to  speak  slightingly  of  the  learned  pro- 
fessors of  our  schools,  either  high  or  low,  I  believe 
those  gentlemen  would  have  found  it  difficult  to 


THE  RETURN  TO  THE  FARM   173 

pass  the  examination  I  could,  for  instance,  on  the 
subject  of  thistles. 

Suddenly,  like  a  bomb,  during  this  quiet,  grow- 
ing time  of  my  Mireille,  burst  the  news  of  the 
Revolution  of  December  2,  1851. 

I  had  never  been  one  of  those  fanatics  to  whom 
the  Republic  meant  religion,  country,  justice — 
everything ;  and  the  Jacobites,  by  their  intolerance, 
their  mania  for  levelling,  their  hardness,  brutality 
and  materialism,  had  disgusted  and  wounded  me 
more  than  once,  and  now  the  action  of  the  Govern- 
ment in  uprooting  the  very  law  to  which  they  had 
sworn  fidelity,  filled  me  with  indignation,  and 
dissipated  once  and  for  all  any  illusions  about 
those  future  federations  which  I  had  once  hoped 
would  be  the  outcome  of  a  Republic  of  France. 

Some  of  my  colleagues  from  the  Law  School 
placed  themselves  at  the  head  of  the  insurgent 
bands  who  were  raised  in  Le  Var  in  the  name  of 
the  Constitution ;  but  the  greater  number,  in 
Provence  as  elsewhere,  some  disgusted  by  the 
turbulence  of  the  opposing  party,  others  dazzled 
by  the  brilliance  of  the  first  Empire,  applauded 
the  change  of  Government.  Who  could  have 
foretold  that  the  new  Empire  would  tumble  to 
pieces  as  it  did,  in  a  terrible  war  and  national 
wreck  ? 


174  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  I  abandoned,  once  and 
for  all,  inflammatory  politics,  even  as  one  casts 
off  a  burden  on  the  road  in  order  to  walk  more 
lightly,  and  from  henceforth  I  gave  myself  up 
entirely  to  my  country  and  my  art — my  Provence, 
from  whom  I  had  never  received  aught  but  pure 

joy- 

One  evening,  about  this  time,  withdrawn  in 
contemplation,  roaming  in  quest  of  my  rhymes, 
— for  I  have  always  found  my  verses  by  the  high- 
ways and  byways — I  met  an  old  man  tending  his 
sheep.  It  was  the  worthy  Jean,  a  character  well 
known  to  me.  The  sky  was  covered  with  stars, 
the  screech-owl  hooted,  and  the  following  dialogue 
took  place  : 

"  You  have  wandered  far,  Mister  Frederic," 
began  the  shepherd. 

"  I  am  taking  a  little  air,  Master  Jean,"  I 
answered. 

'  You  are  going  for  a  turn  among  the  stars  ?  " 

"  Master  Jean,  you  have  said  it.  I  am  so 
heartily  sick,  disillusioned  and  disheartened  with 
the  things  of  earth,  that  I  wish  to-night  to  ascend 
and  lose  myself  in  the  kingdom  of  the  stars." 

"  Well,  I  myself,"  said  he,  "  make  an  excursion 
there  nearly  every  night,  and  I  assure  you  the 
journey  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful." 


THE  RETURN  TO  THE  FARM   175 

"  But  how  does  one  manage  to  find  one's  way 
in  that  unfathomable  depth  of  light  ?  " 

"  If  you  would  like  to  follow  me,  sir,  while  the 
sheep  eat,  I  will  guide  you  gently  and  show  you  all.' ' 

'  Worthy  Jean,  I  take  you  at  your  word  "  T 
readily  agreed. 

"  Now,  let  us  mount  by  that  road  which  shows 
all  white  from  north  to  south  :  it  is  the  road  of 
Saint- Jacques.  It  goes  from  France  straight  over 
to  Spain.  When  the  Emperor  Charlemagne  made 
war  with  the  Saracens,  the  great  Saint- Jacques 
of  Galice  marked  it  out  before  him  to  show  him 
the  way." 

"  It  is  what  the  pagans  called  the  Milky  Way," 
I  observed. 

"  Possibly,"  he  replied  with  indifference.  "  I 
tell  you  what  I  have  always  heard.  Now,  do  you 
see  that  fine  chariot  with  its  four  wheels  which 
dazzles  all  the  north  ?  That  is  the  Chariot  of  the 
Souls.  The  three  stars  which  precede  it  are  the 
three  beasts  of  the  team,  and  the  small  star  which 
is  near  the  third  is  named  the  Charioteer." 

"  They  are  what  the  books  call  the  Great  Bear." 

"  As  you  please — but  look,  look,  all  around  are 
falling  stars — they  are  the  poor  souls  who  have 
just  entered  Paradise.  Make  the  sign  of  the 
Cross,  Mister  Frederic." 


176  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

"  Beautiful  angels,  may  God  be  with  you !  " 

"  But  see,"  he  went  on,  "  a  fine  star  shining 
there,  not  far  from  the  chariot.  It  is  the  drover 
of  the  skies." 

"  Which  in  astronomy  they  call  Arcturus." 
'  That  is  of  no  importance.  Now  look  over 
there  in  the  north  at  the  star  which  scarcely 
scintillates  :  that  is  the  seaman's  star,  otherwise 
called  the  Tramontane.  She  is  nearly  always 
visible,  and  serves  as  a  signal  to  sailors,  they  think 
themselves  lost  if  they  lose  the  Tramontane." 

"  Also  called  the  Polar  Star,"  said  I  ;  "it  is 
found  in  the  Little  Bear,  and  as  the  north  wind 
comes  from  there,  the  sailors  of  Provence,  like 
those  of  Italy,  say  they  are  going  to  the  Bear 
when  they  go  against  that  wind." 

"  Now  turn  your  head,"  said  the  shepherd, 
"  you  will  see  the  Chicken-coop  twinkling,  or, 
if  you  like  it  better,  the  Brood  of  Chickens." 

"  Which  the  learned  have  named  the  Pleiades, 
and  the  Gascon,  the  Dog's  Cart." 

"That's  so,"  he  allowed.  "A  little  lower 
shine  the  Signalmen,  specially  appointed  to  mark 
the  hours  for  the  shepherds.  Some  call  them  the 
'  Three  Kings,'  others  the  '  Three  Bells.'  " 

"  Just  so,  it  is  Orion  and  his  Belt." 

"  Very  well,"  conceded  my  friend,  "  now  still 


THE  RETURN  TO  THE  FARM  177 

lower,  always  towards  the  meridian,  shines  Jean 
de  Milan."  " 

"  Sirius,  if  I  mistake  not." 

"  Jean  de  Milan  is  the  torch  of  the  stars,"  he 
continued.  "  Jean  de  Milan  had  been  invited  one 
day,  with  the  Signalmen  and  the  Young  Chicken, 
so  they  say,  to  a  wedding,  the  wedding  of  the 
beautiful  Maguelone,  of  whom  we  will  speak  again. 
The  Young  Chicken  set  out,  it  appears,  early,  and 
took  the  high  road.  The  Signalmen,  having  taken 
a  lower  cut,  at  last  arrived  there  also.  Jean  de 
Milan  slept  on,  and  when  he  rose  took  a  short 
cut,  and  to  stop  them,  threw  his  stick  flying  in  the 
air — which  caused  them  to  be  called  ever  since, 
by  some  people,  the  Stick  of  Jean  de  Milan." 

"  And  that  one,  far  away,  which  is  just  showing 
its  nose  above  the  mountain  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  That  is  the  Cripple,"  he  replied.  "  He  also 
was  asked  to  the  wedding,  but  as  he  limps,  poor 
devil,  he  goes  but  slowly.  Also,  he  gets  up  late 
and  goes  to  bed  early." 

"  And  that  one  going  down,  over  there,  in  the 
west,  and  shining  like  a  bride  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Ah,  that  is  our  own — the  Shepherds'  Star, 
the  Star  of  the  Morning,  which  lights  us  at  dawn 
when  we  unfold  the  sheep,  and  at  sundown  when 
we  drive  them  in.  That  is  she,  the  .^ueen  of 

'  M 


178  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

stars,  the  beautiful  star,  Maguelone,  the  lovely 
Maguelone,  pursued  unceasingly  by  Pierre  de 
Provence,  with  whom^  every  seven  years,  takes 
place  her  marriage." 

"  The  conjunction,  I  believe,  of  Venus  and 
Jupiter,  or  occasionally  of  Saturn." 

"  According  to  taste,"  replied  my  guide—  '''  but, 
hist,  Labrit  !  Oh,  the  rascally  dog,  the  scoundrel ! 
Whilst  we  talk,  the  sheep  have  scattered.  Hist, 
bring  them  back!  I  must  go  myself.  Good 
evening,  Mister  Frederic,  take  care  you  do  not 
lose  yourself." 

"  Good-night,  friend  Jean." 

Let  us,  also,  return,  like  the  shepherd,  to  our 
sheep. 

About  this  time,  in  a  publication  called  Les 
Proven$ales,  to  which  many  Proven9al  writers, 
old  and  young,  contributed,  I  and  other  of  the 
younger  poets  engaged  in  a  correspondence  on 
the  subject  of  the  language  and  of  our  productions. 
The  result  of  these  discussions,  which  became 
extremely  animated,  was  the  idea  of  a  Conference 
of  Proven£al  poets.  And  under  the  directorship 
of  Roumanille  and  of  Gaut,  both  of  whom  had  been 
contributors  to  the  journal  Lou  Boui-Abaissey 
the  first  meeting  was  held  on  August  29,  1852, 
at  Aries,  in  a  room  in  the  ancient  archbishop's 


THE  RETURN  TO  THE  FARM   179 

palace,  under  the  presidency  of  Doctor  d' Astros, 
oldest  member  of  the  Bards.  Here  we  all  met  and 
made  acquaintance,  Aubanel,  Aubert,  Bourelly, 
Cassan,  Crousillat,  Desanet,  Garcin,  Gaut,  Gelu, 
Mathieu,  Roumanille,  myself  and  others.  Thanks 
to  the  good  Carpentrassian,  Bonaventure  Lau- 
rent, our  portraits  had  the  honour  of  being  in 
U  Illustration  (September  18,  1852). 

Roumanille,  when  inviting  Monsieur  Moquin- 
Tandon,  professor  of  the  Faculty  of  Science  at 
Toulouse,  and  a  gifted  poet  in  his  tongue  of  Mont- 
pellier,  had  begged  him  to  bring  Jasmin  to  Aries. 
But  the  author  of  "  Marthe  la  folle,"  the  illustrious 
poet  of  Gascony,  answered  the  invitation  of 
Moquin-Tandon :  "  Since  you  are  going  to  Aries, 
tell  them  they  may  gather  together  in  forties  and 
in  hundreds,  but  they  will  never  make  the  noise 
that  I  have  made  quite  alone !  " 

"  That  is  Jasmin  from  head  to  foot !  "  Rou~ 
manille  said  to  me.  "  That  reply  reproduces  him 
much  more  faithfully  than  does  the  bronze  statue 
raised  at  Agen  in  his  honour." 

In  short,  the  hairdresser  of  Agen,  in  spite  of  his 
genius,  was  always  somewhat  surly  with  those 
who,  like  himself,  wished  to  sing  in  our  tongue. 
Roumanille,  since  we  are  on  the  subject,  some 
years  previously,  had  sent  him  his  "  Paquerettes," 


8o  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

dedicating  to  him  "Madeleine,"  one  of  the  best 
poems  of  the  collection.  Jasmin  did  not  even  deign 
to  thank  him .  But  in  1848,  when  the  Gascon  passed 
through  Avignon,  on  the  occasion  of  his  assisting 
at  a  concert  given  by  the  harpist,  Mademoiselle 
Roaldes,  Roumanille  and  several  others  went  to 
offer  their  respects  afterwards  to  the  poet,  who  had 
made  tears  flow  as  he  recited  his  "Souvenirs." 

"  Who  are  you  then  ?  "  asked  Jasmin  of  the 
poet  of  Saint-Remy. 

"  One  of  your  admirers,  Joseph  Roumanille." 

"  Roumanille  ! — I  remember  that  name.  But 
I  thought  it  belonged  to  a  dead  author." 

"  Monsieur,  as  you  see,"  answered  the  author 
of  the  '  Paquerettes,'  who  never  allowed  any  one 
to  tread  on  his  toes,  "  I  am  young  enough,  if  it 
please  God,  some  day  to  write  your  epitaph." 

One  who  was  much  more  gracious  to  our  Con- 
gress at  Aries  was  the  good  Reboul,  who  wrote  to  us 
thus  :  "  May  God  bless  you.  May  your  fights  be 
feasts,  your  rivals,  friends  !  He  who  created  the 
skies  made  those  of  our  country  so  wide  and  so 
blue  that  there  is  room  for  all  stars." 

Jules  Canonge  of  Nimes  also  wrote  to  us : 
"  My  friends,  if  you  have  to  battle  one  day 
for  your  cause,  remember  it  was  at  Aries  that 
you  held  your  first  meeting,  and  that  your  torch 


THE  RETURN  TO  THE  FARM   181 

was  lit  in  the  proud  and  noble  city  which  has  for 
arms  and  for  motto,  '  The  sword  and  the  wrath 
of  the  lion.'  " 

The  Congress  at  Aries  had  succeeded  too  well 
not  to  be  renewed.  The  following  year,  on  August 
21,  1853,  a*  the  suggestion  of  Gaut,  the  jovial 
poet  of  Aix,  an  assembly  was  held  at  that  city. 
This  "  Festival  of  the  Bards,"  was  twice  as  large 
as  that  held  at  Aries.  It  was  on  this  occasion 
that  Brizeux,  the'grand  bard  of  Brittany,  addressed 
to  us  his  greetings  and  his  wishes  : 

With  olive  branches  shall  your  heads  be  crowned  ; 

Only  the  moors  have  I,  where  sad  flowers  blow  : 
The  one,  a  sign  of  peace  and  joyous  round  ; 

The  other,  but  a  symbol  of  our  woe. 

Let  us  unite  them,  friends.     Our  sons  henceforth 
Shall  wear  these  flowers  upon  their  brow  no  more, 

Nor  sound  th'  entrancing  songs  of  our  dear  North, 
When  we,  the  faithful  few,  have  gone  before. 

Yet,  can  it  die,  the  fresh  and  gentle  breeze  ? 

The  storm-winds  bear  it  hence  upon  their  wing, 
But  it  comes  back  to  kiss  the  mossy  leas. 

Can  the  song  die  the  nightingale  did  sing  ? 

Nay,  nay  :  our  glorious  speech  in  its  decline, 
O  fair  Provence,  thou  wilt  restore  and  save  ! 

Thro'  long  years  yet  that  errant  voice  of  thine 
Shall  sigh,  O  Merlin,  whispering  o'er  my  grave ! 


182  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

Besides  those  I  have  mentioned  as  figuring  at  the 
Congress  of  Aries,  here  are  the  new  names  that 
appeared  at  the  Congress  of  Aix  :  Leon  Alegre, 
the  Abbe  Aubert,  Autheman  Bellot,  Brunet, 
Chalvet,  the  Abbe  Lambert,  Lejourdan,  Peyrottes, 
Ricard-Berard,  Tavan,  Vidal,  &c.,  and  three 
poetesses,  Mesdemoiselles  Reine  Garde,  Leonide 
Constans,  and  Hortense  Rolland. 

A  literary  seance  was  held  after  lunch  in  the 
Town  Hall,  before  all  the  grand  world  of  Aix.  The 
big  hall  was  courteously  decorated  with  the  colours 
of  Provence  and  the  arms  of  all  the  Proven9al 
towns,  and  on  a  banner  of  crimson  velvet  were 
inscribed  the  names  of  the  principal  Provengal 
poets  of  the  last  century. 

The  Mayor  of  Aix,  who  also  held  the  post  of 
deputy,  was  at  that  time  Monsieur  Rigaud,  the 
same  who  later  made  a  translation  of  "Mireio" 
into  French  verse. 

After  the  overture,  sung  by  a  choir  to  the  words 
of  Jean-Batiste,  and  beginning  : 

Troubadours  of  Provence 
For  us  this  day  is  glorious. 
Behold  the  glad  Renaissance 
Of  the  language  of  the  South ! 

the  President  d' Astros  discoursed  delightfully  in 


THE  RETURN  TO  THE  FARM   183 

Provengal,  and  then,  in  turn,  each  poet  contributed 
some  piece  of  his  own. 

Roumanille,  much  applauded,  recited  one  of 
his  tales,  and  sang  "  La  Jeune  Aveugle ; " 
Aubanel  gave  us  "  Des  Jumeaux,"  and  I  the 
"  Fin  du  Moissonneur."  But  the  greatest  suc- 
cesses were  produced  by  the  song  of  the  peasant 
Tavan,  "  Les  Frisons  de  Mariette,"  and  the  recita- 
tion of  the  mason  Lacroix,  who  made  us  all  shiver 
with  his  "  Pauvre  Martine." 

Emile  Zola,  then  a  scholar  at  the  College  of 
Aix,  was  present  at  this  meeting,  and  forty  years 
afterwards  this  is  what  he  said  in  the  discourse 
he  gave  at  the  Felibree  of  Sceaux  (1892)  : 

"  I  was  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  old,  and  I  can 
see  myself  as  a  school-boy  escaping  from  college 
in  order  to  be  present  in  the  great  room  of  the 
Town  Hall  at  Aix  at  a  poets'  fete,  somewhat 
resembling  the  one  I  have  the  honour  to  preside 
over  to-day.  Mistral  was  there,  declaiming  his 
'  Fin  du  Moissonneur ' ;  Roumanille  and  Aubanel 
also,  and  many  others  who,  a  few  years  later,  were 
to  be  the  '  Felibres '  and  who  were  then  but 
'  Troubadours/  At  the  banquet  that  night  we 
had  the  pleasure  of  raising  our  glasses  to  the  health 
of  old  Bellot,  who  had  made  a  great  name,  not  only 
in  Marseilles  but  throughout  Provence,  as  a  comic 


184  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

poet,  and  who,  overcome  at  seeing  this  outburst 
of  patriotic  enthusiasm,  replied  to  us  somewhat 
sadly  : 

"  '  I  am  but  a  bungler.  In  my  poor  life  I  have 
blackened  much  paper.  But  Gaut,  Mistral,  Crou- 
sillat,  they  who  have  the  fire  of  youth,  will  unwind 
the  tangled  skein  of  our  Proven9al  tongue.' " 


CHAPTER  XII 
FONT-SEGUGNE 

WE  were  a  set  of  youthful  spirits  at  that  time  in 
Provence,  all  closely  banded  together  with  the 
object  of  a  literary  revival  for  our  national  tongue. 
We  went  at  it  heart  and  soul. 

Nearly  every  Sunday,  sometimes  at  Avignon, 
sometimes  at  Maillane,  in  the  gardens  of  Saint- 
Remy  or  on  the  heights  of  Chateauneuf,  we  met 
together  for  our  small  intimate  festivities,  our 
Provengal  banquets,  at  which  the  poetry  was  of  a 
finer  flavour  than  the  meats,  and  our  enthusiasm 
intoxicated  a  good  deal  more  than  the  wine. 

It  was  on  these  occasions  that  Roumanille 
regaled  us  with  his  "  Noels  "  and  "  Dreamers  " 
freshly  coined  from  the  mint,  and  that  Aubanel, 
still  holding  the  faith,  but  tugging  at  the  leading- 
strings,  recited  to  us  his  "  Massacre  of  the  Inno- 
cents." Mireille  also,  from  time  to  time,  appeared 
in  newly  turned-out  strophes. 

Every  year  about  the  Eve  of  Sainte-Agathe> 
"  the  poets/'  as  they  began  to  call  us,  assembled 
at  the  Judge's  Farm,  and  there  for  three  days 


i86  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

lived  the  gypsy's  free  unfettered  life.  Sainte- 
Agathe  belongs  properly  to  Sicily,  where  she  is 
often  invoked  against  the  fires  of  Etna,  but  in 
spite  of  this  she  receives  great  devotion  from  the 
people  of  Aries  and  Maillane,  the  girls  of  the  village 
regarding  it  as  a  coveted  honour  to  serve  as  a 
priestess  of  her  altar,  and  on  the  eve  of  her  feast, 
before  opening  the  dance  on  the  green,  the  young 
couples,  with  their  musicians,  always  commenced 
by  giving  a  serenade  to  Sainte-Agathe  outside 
the  parish  church.  We,  with  the  other  gallants 
of  the  countryside,  also  went  to  pay  our  respects 
to  the  patroness  of  Maillane. 

It  is  a  curious  thing,  this  homage  offered  to 
dead  and  gone  saints,  throughout  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  land,  in  the  north  even  as  in 
the  south,  and  continuing  uninterruptedly  for 
centuries  upon  centuries.  What  a  passing  and 
ephemeral  thing  in  comparison  is  the  fame  and 
homage  awarded  to  the  poet,  artist,  scholar,  or 
even  warrior,  remembered  as  they  are  by  only  a 
few  admirers.  Victor  Hugo  himself  will  never 
attain  the  fame  of  even  the  least  saint  on  the 
calendar;  take,  for  example,  Saint-Gent,  who  for 
seven  hundred  years  has  seen  his  thousands  of 
faithful  flocking  annually  to  his  shrine  in  the 
mountains.  No  one  more  readily  than  Victor 


FONT-SEGUGNE  187 

Hugo  recognised  this  truth,  for,  asked  one  day 
by  a  flatterer  what  glory  in  this  world  could 
excel  that  which  crowned  the  poet,  he  answered 
promptly,  "That  of  the  saint." 

Mathieu  was  in  great  request  at  the  village 
dances,  and  we  all  watched  him  with  admiration 
as  he  danced,  now  with  Villette,  now  with  Gango 
or  Lali,  my  pretty  cousins.  In  the  meadow  by 
the  mill  took  place  the  wrestling  contests,  an- 
nounced by  the  beating  of  tambours  and  pre- 
sided over  by  old  Jesette,  the  famous  champion 
of  former  days,  who,  marching  up  and  down,  pitted 
one  against  the  other,  in  strident  tones  enforcing 
the  rules  of  the  game. 

One  of  us  would  ask  him  if  he  remembered  how 
he  had  made  the  wrestler  Quequine,  or  some  other 
rival,  bite  the  dust,  and  once  started,  the  old 
athlete  would  rehearse  with  delight  his  ancient 
victories,  how  he  floored  Bel-Arbre  of  Aramon,  not 
to  mention  Rabasson,  Creste  d'Apt  and,  above  all, 
Meissonier,  the  Hercules  of  Avignon,  before  whom 
no  one  could  stand  up.  Ah,  in  those  days  he  might 
truly  say  he  had  been  invincible  !  He  had  gone 
by  the  name  of  the  "  Little  Maillanais  " — "  the 
Flexible." 

When  our  poets'  reunions  were  at  Saint-Remy 
we  met  at  the  house  of  Roumanille's  parents, 


i88  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

Jean-Denis  and  Pierrette,  well-to-do  market- 
gardeners  living  on  their  own  land.  On  these 
occasions  we  dined  in  the  open  air  under  the  shade 
of  a  vine-covered  arbour.  The  best  painted 
plates  were  had  out  in  our  honour,  while  Zine 
and  Antoinette,  the  two  sisters  of  our  friend, 
handsome  brunettes  in  their  twenties,  ministered 
to  our  wants  and  served  us  with  the  excellent 
Uanquette  they  had  themselves  prepared. 

A  rugged  old  soldier  was  this  Jean-Denis,  father 
of  Joseph  Roumanille.  He  had  served  under 
Bonaparte,  as  he  somewhat  disdainfully  called  the 
Emperor,  had  fought  in  the  battle  of  Waterloo 
and  gained  the  Cross,  which,  however,  in  the  con- 
fusion following  the  defeat,  he  never  received. 
When  his  son,  in  after  years,  gained  a  decoration 
under  MacMahon,  he  remarked  :  "  The  son  receives 
what  the  father  earned." 

The  following  is  the  epitaph  Roumanille  in- 
scribed on  the  tomb  of  his  parents  in  the  cemetery 

at  Saint-Remy  : 

\ 

T6  Jean-Denis  Roumanille 
Gardener.     A  man  of  worth  and  courage.     1791-1875. 

And  to  Pierrette  his  Spouse 

Good,  pious  and  strong.     1793-1875. 

They  lived  as  Christians  and  died  in  peace. 

God  keep  them. 


FONT-SEGUGNE  189 

Our  meetings  in  Avignon  were  held  at  Aubanel's 
home  in  the  street  of  Saint-Marc,  which  to-day 
is  called  by  the  name  of  the  great  Felibre  poet. 
The  house  had  formerly  been  a  cardinal's  palace, 
and  has  since  been  destroyed  in  making  a  new 
street.  Just  inside  the  vestibule  stood  the  great 
wooden  press  with  its  big  screw,  which  for  two 
hundred  years  had  served  for  printing  the  parochial 
and  educational  works  of  all  the  State. 

Here  we  would  take  up  our  abode,  somewhat 
awed  by  the  odour  of  sanctity  which  seemed  to 
emanate  from  those  episcopal  walls,  and  even  more 
by  Jeanneton,  the  old  cook,  who  eyed  us  with  a 
look  which  said  plainly  :  "  Why,  here  they  are 
again  !  " 

The  kindly  welcome,  however,  of  our  host's 
father,  official  printer  to  his  Holiness  the  Pope, 
and  the  joviality  of  his  uncle,  the  venerable  Canon, 
soon  put  us  at  our  ease. 

At  Brunet's  and  also  Mathieu's  we  sometimes 
held  our  revels,  but  it  was  at  Font-Segugne,  pre- 
destined to  play  an  important  part  in  our  enter- 
prise, that  perhaps  we  most  enjoyed  ourselves  in 
the  charming  country  house  belonging  to  the 
family  of  Giera.  Paul,  the  eldest  son,  was  a  notary 
at  Avignon,  and  an  enthusiastic  supporter  of  our 
movement.  His  mother,  a  dignified  and  gracious 


igo  MEMOIRS  OF  MISTRAL 

lady,  two  sisters,  charming,  joyous  young  girls, 
and  a  younger  brother,  Jules,  devoted  to  the  work 
of  the  White  Penitents,  made  up  the  circle  of  this 
delightful  home. 

Font-Segugne  is  situated  near  the  Camp-Cabel, 
facing  in  the  distance  the  great  Ventoux  mountain, 
and  a  few  miles  from  the  Fountain  of  Vaucluse. 
It  takes  its  name  from  a  little  spring  which  runs 
at  the  foot  of  the  castle.  A  delicious  little  copse 
of  oaks,  acacias  and  planes  protects  the  place 
from  winter  winds  and  the  summer  sun. 

Tavan,  the  peasant  poet  of  Gadagne,  says  of 
Font-Segugne  :  "  It  is  the  favourite  trysting-spot 
of  the  village  lovers  on  Sundays,  for  there  they  find 
a  grateful  shade,  solitude,  quiet  nooks,  little  stone 
benches  covered  with  ivy,  winding  paths  among  the 
trees,  a  lovely  view,  the  song  of  birds,  the  rustling 
of  leaves,  the  rippling  of  brooks  !  Where  better 
than  in  such  a  spot  can  the  solitary  wander  and 
dream  of  love,  or  the  happy  pair  resort,  and  love  ?  " 

Here  we  came,  to  re-create  ourselves  like  moun- 
tain birds — Roumanille,  Mathieu,  Brunet,  Tavan, 
Crousillat,  and,  above  all,  Aubanel,  under  the  spell 
of  the  eyes  of  Zani,  a  fair  young  friend  of  the  young 
ladies  of  the  house : 

In  his  "  Livre  de  1' Amour,"  Aubanel  drew  the 
portrait  of  his  enchantress : 


FONT-SEGUGNE  191 

"  Soon  I  shall  see  her — the  young  maiden  with 
her  slender  form  clad  in  a  soft  gown  of  grey — 
with  her  smooth  brow  and  her  beauteous  eyes, 
her  long  black  hair  and  lovely  face.  Soon  I  shall 
see  her,  the  youthful  virgin,  and  she  will  say  to  me 
'  Good  evening.'  Oh  Zani,  come  quickly  !  " 

In  after  years,  when  his  Zani  had  taken 
the  veil,  he  writes  of  Font-Segugne,  recalling  the 
past  : 

"It  is  summer — the  nights  are  clear.  Over 
the  copse  the  moon  mounts  and  shines  down  on 
Camp-Cabel.  Dost  thou  remember,  behind  the 
convent  walls,  thou  with  thy  Spanish  face,  how 
we  chased  each  other,  running,  racing  like  mad, 
among  the  trees,  till  in  the  dark  wood  thou  wast 
afraid  ?  And  ah,  how  sweet  it  was  when  my  arm 
stole  round  thy  slender  waist,  and  to  the  song  of 
the  nightingales  we  danced  together,  while  thou 
didst  mingle  thy  fresh  young  voice  with  the  notes 
of  the  birds.  Ah,  sweet  little  friend,  where  are 
they  now,  those  songs  and  joys  !  When  tired  of 
running,  of  laughing,  of  dancing,  I  remember  how 
we  sat  down  beneath  the  oak-trees  to  rest.  My 
hand,  a  lover's  hand,  played  with  thy  long  raven 
tresses  which,  loosened,  fell  about  thee — and 
smiling  gently  as  a  mother  on  her  child,  thou 
didst  not  forbid  me." 


192  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

On  the  walls  of  the  room  at  the  chateau  where 
Zani  had  once  slept,  he  wrote  these  lines  : 

"  O  little  chamber — dear  little  chamber  !  How 
small  to  hold  so  many  remembrances  !  As  I  cross 
the  threshold  it  seems  to  me  I  hear  them  come — 
those  two  sweet  maids  Zani  and  Julia.  But  never 
will  they  sleep  again  in  this  little  room — those 
days  are  flown  for  ever — Julia  dwells  no  more  on 
earth,  and  my  Zani  is  a  nun." 

No  spot  more  favourable  could  have  been 
imagined  wherein  to  cradle  a  glorious  dream,  to 
bring  to  flower  the  bloom  of  an  ideal,  than  this 
chateau  on  the  hillside,  surrounded  by  the  serene 
blue  distances,  enlivened  by  these  lovely  laughing 
maidens  and  a  group  of  young  men  vowed  to  the 
worship  of  the  Beautiful  under  the  three  headings 
of  Poetry,  Love,  and  Provence,  a  trinity  which 
for  them  formed  always  a  unity. 

It  was  written  in  the  stars  that  one  Sunday  of 
flowers,  May  21,  1854,  at  the  full  tide  of  spring 
and  youth,  seven  poets  should  meet  at  this  chateau 
of  Font-Se*gugne. 

Paul  Giera,  a  joking  spirit  who  signed  his  name 
backwards  as  "  Glaup "  ;  Roumanille,  a  pro- 
pagandist who,  without  appearing  to  do  so,  un- 
ceasingly fanned  the  flame  of  the  sacred  fire  all 
around  him  ;  Aubanel,  converted  by  Roumanille 


FONT-SEGUGNE  193 

to  our  tongue,  and  who,  under  the  influence  of 
love's  sun,  was  at  this  moment  bursting  into  bloom 
with  his  "  Pomegranate  "  ;  Mathieu,  lost  in  visions 
of  a  reawakened  Provence,  and,  as  ever,  the 
gallant  squire  of  all  fair  damsels ;  Brunet  with  his 
face  resembling  the  Christ,  dreaming  his  utopia 
of  a  terrestrial  Paradise ;  and  the  peasant  Tavan, 
who,  stretched  on  the  grass,  sang  all  day  like  the 
cicada  ;  finally,  Frederic,  ready  to  send  on  the 
wings  of  the  mistral,  like  the  mountain  shep- 
herds to  their  flocks,  his  hailing  cry  to  all  brothers 
of  the  race,  and  to  plant  his  standard  on  the 
summit  of  the  Ventoux. 

At  dinner,  the  conversation  turned  that  evening, 
as  so  often  before,  on  the  best  means  of  rescuing 
our  language  from  the  decadence  into  which  it 
had  fallen  since  those  ruling  classes,  faithless  to 
the  honour  of  Provence,  had  relegated  the  language 
to  the  position  of  a  mere  dialect.  And,  in  view  of 
the  fact  that  at  the  last  two  Congresses,  both  at 
Aries  and  at  Aix,  every  attempt  on  the  part  of 
the  young  school  of  Avignon  patriots  to  rehabili- 
tate the  Proven9al  tongue  had  been  badly  received 
and  dismissed,  the  seven  at  Font-Segugne  deter- 
mined to  band  together  and  take  the  enterprise 
in  hand. 
t  "  And  now,"  said  Glaup,  "  as  we  are  forming  a 

N 


194  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

new  body  we  must  have  a  new  name.  The  old 
one  of  "  minstrel "  will  not  do,  as  every  rhymer, 
even  he  who  has  nothing  to  rhyme  about,  adopts 
it.  That  of  troubadour  is  no  better,  for,  appro- 
priated to  designate  the  poets  of  a  certain  period, 
it  has  been  tarnished  by  abuse.  We  must  find 
something  new." 

Then  I  took  up  the  speech  : 

"  My  friends,"  said  I,  "in  an  old  country 
legend  I  believe  we  shall  find  the  predestined 
name."  And  I  proceeded :  "  His  Reverence 
Saint-Anselme,  reading  and  writing  one  day  from 
the  Holy  Scriptures,  was  lifted  up  into  the  highest 
heaven.  Seated  near  the  Infant  Christ  he  beheld 
the  Holy  Virgin.  Having  saluted  the  aged  saint, 
the  Blessed  Virgin  continued  her  discourse  to  her 
Infant  Son,  relating  how  she  came  to  suffer  for 
His  sake  seven  bitter  wounds."  Here  I  omitted  the 
recital  of  the  wounds  until  I  came  to  the  following 
passage  :  "  The  fourth  wound  that  I  suffered  for 
Thee,  O  my  precious  Son,  it  was  when  I  lost  Thee, 
and  seeking  three  days  and  three  nights  found 
Thee  not  until  I  entered  the  Temple,  where  Thou 
wast  disputing  with  the  scribes  of  the  Law,  with 
the  seven  '  Felibres  '  of  the  Law." 

"  The  seven  Felibres  of  the  Law — but  here  we 
are  !  "  cried  they  all  in  chorus  :  "  Felibre  is  the 
name." 


FONT-SEGUGNE  195 

Then  Glaup,  filling  up  the  seven  glasses  with  a 
bottle  of  Chateauneuf  which  had  been  just  seven 
years  in  the  cellar,  proposed  the  health  of  the 
Felibres.  "And  since  we  have  begun  baptizing," 
he  continued,  "  let  us  adopt  all  the  vocabulary 
which  can  be  legitimately  derived  from  our  new 
name.  I  suggest,  therefore,  that  every  branch  of 
Felibres  numbering  not  less  than  seven  members 
shall  be  called  a  '  Felibrerie/  in  memory,  gentle- 
men, of  the  Pleiades  of  Avignon." 

"And  I,"  said  Roumanille,  "beg  to  propose 
the  pretty  verb  '  felibriser,'  signifying  to  meet 
together  as  we  are  now  doing." 

"  I  wish  to  add,"  said  Mathieu,  "  the  term 
'  felibree '  to  signify  a  festivity  of  Provengal  poets." 

"  And  I,"  struck  in  Tavan,  "  give  the  adjective 
'  felibreen '  to  all  things  descriptive  of  our  move- 
ment." 

"  And  to  the  ladies  who  shall  sing  in  the  tongue 
of  Provence  I  dedicate  the  name  of  '  Felibresse/  " 
said  Aubanel. 

Upon  which  Brunet  added  promptly  : 

"  And  the  children  of  all  Felibres  I  baptize 
'  Felibrillons.'  " 

"  And  let  me  conclude,"  I  cried,  "  with  this 
national  word,  '  Felibrige,'  which  shall  designate 
our  work  and  association." 

Then  Glaup  took  up  the  speech  again  : 


196  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

"  But  this  is  not  all,  my  friends — behold  us, 
'  the  wise  ones  of  the  Law ' — but  how  about  the 
Law  ?  Who  is  going  to  make  it  ?  " 

"  I  am,"  I  answered  unhesitatingly,  "  even  if  I 
have  to  give  twenty  years  of  my  life  to  it ;  I  will 
undertake  to  show  that  our  speech  is  a  language, 
not  a  dialect,  and  I  will  reconstruct  the  laws  on 
which  it  was  once  formed." 

How  strange  it  seems  to  look  back  on  that  scene 
— like  some  fairy-tale,  and  yet  it  was  from  that  day 
of  light-hearted  festivity,  of  youthful  ideals  and 
enthusiasms,  that  sprang  the  gigantic  task  com- 
pleted in  the  "Treasury  of  the  Felibres,"*  a 

*  Monsieur  Paul  Marieton  in  his  "  Terre  Provencale  "  says 
of  this  work  :  "  The  history  of  a  people  is  contained  in  this 
book.  No  one  can  ever  know  what  devotion,  knowledge,  dis- 
crimination and  intuition  such  a  work  represents,  undertaken 
and  concluded  as  it  was  during  the  twenty  best  years  of  a 
poet's  life.  All  the  words  of  the  Oc  language  in  its  seven 
different  dialects,  each  one  compared  with  its  equivalent  in 
the  Latin  tongue,  all  the  proverbs  and  idioms  of  the  South 
together  with  every  characteristic  expression  either  in  use  or 
long  since  out  of  vogue,  make  up  this  incomparable  Thesaurus 
of  a  tenacious  language,  which  is  no  more  dead  to-day  than  it 
was  three  hundred  years  ago,  and  which  is  now  reconquering 
the  hearts  of  all  the  faithful."  This  "  Treasury  of  the  Felibres  " 
opens  with  the  following  lines  : 

"  O  people  of  the  South,  hearken  now  to  my  words  : 
"  If  thou  would'st  regain  the  lost   Empire  of  thy  speech 
and  equip  thyself  anew,  dig  deep  in  this  mine." 


MME.  FREDERIC  MISTRAL,  IST  QUEEN  OF  THE  FELIBRES. 


FONT-SEGUGNE  197 

dictionary  of  the  Provensal  tongue,  including 
every  variety  of  derivation  and  idiom,  a  work  to 
which  I  devoted  twenty  years  of  my  life. 

In  the  Provencal  Almanac  for  1855,  Paul 
Giera  writes  : 

'  When  the  Law  is  completed  which  is  being 
now  prepared  by  one  of  our  number,  and  which 
will  clearly  set  forth  the  why  and  wherefore  of 
everything,  all  opponents  will  be  finally  silenced." 

It  was  on  this  memorable  occasion  at  Font- 
Segugne  that  we  also  decided  on  a  small  annual 
publication  which  should  be  a  connecting-link 
between  all  Felibres,  the  standard-bearer  of  our 
ideas,  and  a  means  of  communicating  them  to 
the  people. 

Having  settled  all  these  points,  we  suddenly 
bethought  us  that  this  same  May  21  was  no  other 
than  the  Feast  of  the  Star  (Saint-Estelle) ,  and 
even  as  the  Magi,  recognising  the  mystic  influx 
of  some  high  conjunction,  we  saluted  the  Star 
so  opportunely  presiding  over  the  cradle  of  our 
redemption. 

That  same  year,  1855,  appeared  the  first  number 
of  the  Provencal  Almanac,  numbering  112  pages. 
And  conspicuous  among  the  contributions  was 
our  "  Song  of  the  Felibres,"  which  set  forth  the 
programme  of  our  popular  Renaissance. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  "PROVENCAL  ALMANAC" 

i 

THE  Provencal  Almanac,  welcomed  by  the 
country-people,  delighted  in  by  the  patriots, 
highly  favoured  by  the  learned  and  eagerly  looked 
forward  to  by  the  artistic,  rapidly  gained  a  footing 
with  the  public,  and  the  publication,  which  the 
first  year  had  numbered  five  hundred  copies, 
quickly  increased  to  twelve  hundred,  three  thou- 
sand, five,  seven,  and  then  ten  thousand,  which 
figure  remained  the  lowest  average  during  a  period 
of  from  fifteen  to  twenty  years. 

As  this  periodical  was  essentially  one  for  the 
family  circle,  this  figure  represents,  I  should  judge, 
at  least  fifty  thousand  readers.  It  is  impossible 
to  give  any  idea  of  the  trouble,  devotion  and  pride 
which  both  Roumanille  and  I  bestowed  unceasingly 
on  this  beloved  little  work  during  the  first  forty 
years.  Without  mentioning  the  numerous  poems 
which  were  published  in  it,  and  those  Chronicles 
wherein  were  contained  the  whole  history  of  the 
Felibre  movement,  the  quantity  of  tales,  legends, 
witticisms,  and  jokes  culled  from  all  parts  of  the 


THE  "PROVENQAL  ALMANAC'   199 

country  made  this  publication  a  unique  collection. 
The  essence  of  the  spirit  of  our  race  was  to  be  found 
here,  with  its  traditions  and  characteristics,  and 
were  the  people  of  Provence  to  one  day  disappear, 
their  manner  of  living  and  thinking  would  be  redis- 
covered, faithfully  portrayed  such  as  they  were,  in 
this  Almanac  of  the  Felibres. 

Roumanille  has  published  in  a  separate  volume, 
"  Tales  of  Provence,"  the  flower  of  those  attrac- 
tive stories  he  contributed  in  profusion  to  the 
Almanac.  I  have  never  collected  my  tales,  but 
will  here  give  a  few  specimens  of  those  which  were 
among  the  most  popular  of  my  contributions,  and 
which  have  been  widely  circulated  in  translations 
by  Alphonse  Daudet,  Paul  Arene,  E.  Blavat,  and 
other  good  friends. 


THE  GOOD  PILGRIM 

LEGEND    OF    PROVENCE 


Master  Archimbaud  was  nearly  a  hundred  years 
old.  He  had  been  formerly  a  rugged  man  of  war, 
but  now,  crippled  and  paralysed  with  age,  he  never 
left  his  bed,  being  unable  to  move. 


200  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

Old  Master  Archimbaud  had  three  sons. 
One  morning  he  called  the  eldest  to  him  and 
said  : 

"  Come  here,  Archimbalet !  While  lying  quiet 
in  my  bed  and  meditating,  for  the  bedridden  have 
time  for  reflection,  I  remembered  that  once  in  the 
midst  of  a  battle,  finding  myself  in  mortal  danger, 
I  vowed  if  God  delivered  me  to  go  on  a  pilgrimage 
to  Rome.  .  .  .  Alas,  I  am  as  old  as  earth  ! 
and  can  no  longer  go  on  a  journey ;  I  wish,  my  son, 
that  thou  wouldst  make  that  pilgrimage  in  my 
stead ;  sorely  it  troubles  me  to  die  without  accom- 
plishing my  vow." 

The  eldest  son  replied  : 

"  What  the  devil  has  put  this  into  your  head, 
a  pilgrimage  to  Rome  and  I  don't  know  where  else  ! 
Father,  eat,  drink,  lie  still  in  your  bed  and  say  as 
many  Paternosters  as  you  please  !  but  the  rest 
of  us  have  something  else  to  do." 

The  next  morning,  Master  Archimbaud  called 
to  him  his  second  son  : 

"  Listen,  my  son,"  he  said  ;  "  meditating  here 
on  my  bed  and  reviewing  the  past — for,  seest  thou, 
in  bed  one  has  leisure  for  thinking — I  remembered 
that  once,  in  a  fight,  finding  myself  in  mortal 
danger,  I  vowed  to  God  to  make  the  great  j  ourney 
to  Rome  ....  Alas  !  I  am  old  as  earth  J  I  can 


THE  "PROVENCAL  ALMANAC'   201 

no  longer  go  to  the  wars.  Greatly  I  desire  that 
thou  wouldest  in  my  stead  make  the  pilgrimage 
to  Rome." 

The  second  son  replied  : 

"  Father,  in  two  weeks  we  shall  have  the  hot 
weather !  Then  the  fields  must  be  ploughed, 
the  vines  dressed,  the  hay  cut.  Our  eldest  must 
take  the  flocks  to  the  mountains  ;  the  youngest  is 
nought  but  a  boy.  Who  will  give  the  orders  if  I 
go  to  Rome,  idling  by  the  roads  ?  Father,  eat, 
sleep,  and  leave  us  in  peace." 

Next  morning  good  Master  Archimband  called 
his  youngest  son  : 

"  Esperit,  my  child,  approach,"  said  he;  "I 
promised  the  good  God  to  make  a  pilgrimage  to 
Rome.  .  .  .  But  I  am  old  as  earth  !  I  can  no 
longer  go  to  the  wars.  ...  I  would  gladly  send 
thee  in  my  place,  poor  boy.  But  thou  art  too 
young,  thou  dost  not  know  the  way ;  Rome  is 
very  far,  my  God !  should  some  misfortune  over- 
take thee  .  .  .  !  " 

"  My  father,  I  will  go,"  answered  the  youth. 

But  the  mother  cried  : 

"  I  will  not  have  thee  go  !  This  old  dotard, 
with  his  war  and  his  Rome,  will  end  by  getting  on 
our  nerves  ;  not  content  with  grumbling,  com- 
plaining and  moaning  the  whole  year  through,  he 


202  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

will  send  now  this  poor  dear  innocent  where  he 
will  only  get  lost." 

"  Mother,"  said  the  young  son,  "  the  wish  of 
a  father  is  an  order  from  God  !  When  God  com- 
mands, one  must  go." 

And  Esperit,  without  further  talk,  went  and  filled 
a  small  gourd  with  wine,  took  some  bread  and 
onions  in  his  knapsack,  put  on  his  new  shoes,  chose 
a  good  oaken  stick  from  the  wood-house,  threw  his 
cloak  over  his  shoulder,  embraced  his  old  father, 
who  gave  him  much  good  advice,  bade  farewell 
to  all  his  relations,  and  departed. 


II 

But  before  taking  the  road,  he  went  devoutly 
to  hear  the  blessed  Mass  ;  and  was  it  not  wonder- 
ful that  on  leaving  the  church  he  found  on  the 
threshold  a  beautiful  youth  who  addressed  him 
in  these  words  : 

"  Friend,  are  you  not  going  to  Rome  ?  " 

"  I  am,"  said  Esperit. 

"  And  I  also,  comrade  :  If  it  pleases  you,  we 
could  make  the  journey  together." 

"  Willingly,  my  friend." 

Now  this  gracious  youth  was  an  angel  sent  by 
God.  Esperit  and  the  angel  then  set  forth  on 


FELIX  GRAS.     POET  AND  FELIBRE. 


THE   "PROVENCAL   ALMANAC1       203 

the  road  to  Rome ;  and  thus,  joyfully,  through  sun- 
shine and  shower,  begging  their  bread  and  singing 
psalms,  the  little  gourd  at  the  end  of  a  stick, 
they  arrived  at  last  in  the  city  of  Rome. 

Having  rested,  they  paid  their  devotions  at  the 
great  church  of  Saint  Peter,  they  visited  in  turn 
the  basilicas,  the  chapels,  the  oratories,  the  sanc- 
tuaries, and  all  the  sacred  monuments,  kissed  the 
relics  of  the  Apostles  Peter  and  Paul,  of  the  virgins, 
the  martyrs,  and  also  of  the  true  Cross,  and  finally, 
before  leaving,  they  saw  the  Pope,  who  gave  them 
his  blessing. 

Then  Esperit  with  his  companion  went  to  rest 
under  the  porch  of  Saint  Peter,  and  Esperit  fell 
asleep.  Now  in  his  sleep  the  pilgrim  saw  in  a 
dream  his  mother  and  his  brothers  burning  in  hell, 
and  he  saw  himself  with  his  father  in  the  eternal 
glory  of  the  Paradise  of  God. 

"  Alas !  if  this  is  so,"  he  cried,  "  I  beseech  thee, 
my  God,  that  I  may  take  out  of  the  flames  my 
mother,  my  poor  mother,  and  my  brothers  !  " 

And  God  replied  : 

"  As  for  thy  brothers,  it  is  impossible,  for  they 
have  disobeyed  my  commandments ;  but  thy 
mother,  perhaps,  if  thou  canst,  before  her  death, 
make  her  perform  three  charities." 

Then  Esperit  awoke.  The  angel  had  disappeared. 


204  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

In  vain  he  waited,  searched  for  him,  inquired 
after  him,  nowhere  could  he  be  found,  and  Esperit 
was  obliged  to  leave  Rome  all  alone. 

He  went  toward  the  sea- coast,  where  he  picked 
up  some  shells  with  which  he  ornamented  his  cloak 
and  his  hat,  and  from  there,  slowly,  by  high  roads 
and  by-paths,  valleys,  and  mountains,  begging 
and  praying,  he  came  again  to  his  own  country. 


Ill 

It  was  thus  he  arrived  at  last  at  his  native  place 
and  his  own  home.  He  had  been  away  about  two 
years.  Haggard  and  wasted,  tanned,  dusty,  ragged 
and  bare-foot,  with  his  little  gourd  at  the  end  of 
his  staff,  his  rosary  and  his  shells,  he  was  unrecog- 
nisable. No  one  knew  him  as  he  made  his  way 
to  the  paternal  door  and,  knocking,  said  gently  : 

"  For  God's  sake,  I  pray  of  your  charity  give  to 
the  poor  pilgrim." 

"  Oh  what  a  nuisance  you  are  !  Every  day  some 
of  you  pass  here — a  set  of  vagabonds,  scamps,  and 
vagrants !  " 

"  Alas  !  my  spouse,"  said  the  poor  old  Archim- 
baud  from  his  bed,  "  give  him  something :  who 
knows  but  our  son  is  perhaps  even  at  this  moment 
in  the  same  need  !  " 


THE  "PROVENCAL  ALMANAC'   205 

Then  the  woman,  though  still  grumbling,  went 
off,  and  cutting  a  hunk  of  bread,  gave  it  to  the 
poor  beggar. 

The  following  day  the  pilgrim  returned  again 
to  the  door  of  his  parents'  house,  saying  : 

"  For  God's  sake,  my  mistress,  give  a  little 
charity  to  the  poor  pilgrim." 

"  What  !  you  are  here  again  !  "  cried  the  old 
woman.  "  You  know  very  well  I  gave  to  you 
yesterday — these  gl  at  tons  would  eat  one  out  of 
house  and  home." 

"  Alas,  good  wife  !  "  interposed  the  good  old 
Archimbaud,  "  didst  thou  not  eat  yesterday  and 
yet  thou  hast  eaten  again  to-day  ?  Who  knows 
but  our  son  may  be  in  the  same  sad  plight !  " 

And  again  his  wife  relenting  went  off  and  fetched 
a  slice  of  bread  for  the  poor  beggar. 

The  next  day  Esperit  returned  again  to  his  home 
and  said  : 

"  For  God's  sake,  my  mistress,  grant  shelter 
to  the  poor  pilgrim." 

"  Nay,"  cried  the  hard  old  body,  "be  off  with 
you  and  lodge  with  the  ragamuffins  !  " 

"  Alas,  wife ! "  interposed  again  the  good  old 
Archimbaud,  "  give  him  shelter  :  who  knows  if 
our  own  child,  our  poor  Esperit,  is  not  at  this  very 
hour  exposed  to  the  severity  of  the  storm." 


206  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

"  Ah,  yes,  thou  art  right,"  said  the  mother, 
softening,  and  she  went  at  once  and  opened  the 
door  of  the  stable ;  then  poor  Esperit  entered,  and 
on  the  straw  behind  the  beasts  he  crouched  down 
in  a  corner. 

At  early  dawn  the  following  morning  the  mother 
and  brothers  of  Esperit  went  to  open  the  stable 
door.  .  .  .  Behold  the  stable  was  all  illumined, 
and  there  lay  the  pilgrim,  stiff  and  white  in  death, 
while  four  tall  tapers  burned  around  him.  The 
straw  on  which  he  was  stretched  was  glistening, 
the  spiders'  webs,  shining  with  rays,  hung  from  the 
beams  above,  like  the  draperies  of  a  mortuary 
chapel.  The  beasts  of  the  stall,  mules  and  oxen, 
pricked  up  startled  ears,  while  their  great  eyes 
brimmed  with  tears.  A  perfume  of  violets  filled 
the  place,  and  the  poor  pilgrim,  his  face  all  glorious, 
held  in  his  clasped  hands  a  paper  on  which  was 
written  :  "I  am  your  son." 

Then  all  burst  into  tears,  and  falling  on  their 
knees,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross :  Esperit  was 
henceforth  a  saint. 

(Almanack  Provencal,  1879.) 


THE  "PROVENQAL  ALMANAC"  207 


JARJAYE  IN  PARADISE 

JARJAYE,  a  street-porter  of  Tarascon,  having  just 
died,  with  closed  eyes  fell  into  the  other  world. 
Down  and  down  he  fell !  Eternity  is  vast,  pitch- 
black,  limitless,  lugubrious.  Jarjaye  knew  not 
where  to  set  foot,  all  was  uncertainty,  his  teeth 
chattered,  he  beat  the  air.  But  as  he  wandered 
in  the  vast  space,  suddenly  he  perceived  in  the 
distance,  a  light,  it  was  far  off,  very  far  off.  He 
directed  himself  towards  it ;  it  was  the  door  of  the 
good  God. 

Jarjaye  knocked,  bang,  bang,  on  the  door. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "  asked  Saint  Peter. 

"It's  me  !  "  answered  Jarjaye. 

"  Who— thou  ?  " 

"  Jarjaye." 
'  Jarjaye  of  Tarascon  ?  " 

"  That's  it— himself  !  " 

(<  But  you  good-for-nothing,"  said  Saint  Peter, 
"  how  have  you  the  face  to  demand  entrance  into 
the  blessed  Paradise,  you  who  for  the  last  twenty 
years  have  never  said  your  prayers,  who,  when 
they  said  to  you, '  Jarjaye,  come  to  Mass,'  answered 
'  I  only  go  to  the  afternoon  Mass  !  '  thou,  who  in 
derision  calledst  the  thunder,  '  the  drum  of  the 


208  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

snails ; '  thou  did'st  eat  meat  on  Fridays,  saying, 
'  What  does  it  matter,  it  is  flesh  that  makes  flesh, 
what  goes  into  the  body  cannot  hurt  the  soul ; ' 
thou  who,  when  they  rang  the  Angelus,  instead  of 
making  the  sign  of  the  cross  like  a  good  Christian, 
cried  mocking,  '  A  pig  is  hung  on  the  bell '  ;  thou 
who,  when  thy  father  admonished  thee,  '  Jarjaye, 
God  will  surely  punish  thee/  answered,  '  The  good 
God,  who  has  seen  him  ?  Once  dead  one  is  well 
dead.'  Finally,  thou  who  didst  blaspheme  and 
deny  the  holy  oil  and  baptism,  is  it  possible  that 
thou  darest  to  present  thyself  here  ?  " 

The  unhappy  Jarjaye  replied  : 

"  I  deny  nothing,  I  am  a  sinner.  But  who  could 
know  that  after  death  there  would  be  so  many 
mysteries  !  Any  way,  yes,  I  have  sinned.  The 
medicine  is  uncorked — if  one  must  drink  it,  why 
one  must.  But  at  least,  great  Saint  Peter,  let 
me  see  my  uncle  for  a  little,  just  to  give  him  the 
latest  news  from  Tarascon." 

"What  uncle?" 

"  My  Uncle  Matery,  he  who  was  a  White  Peni- 
tent." 

"  Thy  Uncle  Matery  !  He  is  undergoing  a 
hundred  years  of  purgatory  !  " 

"  Malediction !  a  hundred  years  !  Why  what 
had  he  done  amiss  ?  " 


"THE   PROVENCAL   ALMANAC'      209 

"  Thou  rememberest  that  he  carried  the  cross 
in  the  procession.  One  day  some  wicked  jesters 
gave  each  other  the  word,  and  one  of  them  said, 
'  Look  at  Matery,  who  is  carrying  the  cross ; '  and 
a  little  further  another  repeated,  '  Look  at  Matery, 
who  is  carrying  the  cross,'  and  at  last  another 
said  like  this,  '  Look,  look  at  Matery,  what  is  he 
carrying  ?  '  Matery  got  angry,  it  appears,  and 
answered,  '  A  jackanapes  like  thee.'  And  forth- 
with he  had  a  stroke  and  died  in  his  anger." 

"  Well  then,  let  me  see  my  Aunt  Dorothee,  who 
was  very,  very  religious." 

"  Bah !  she  must  be  with  the  devil,  I  don't  know 
her." 

"  It  does  not  astonish  me  in  the  least  that  she 
should  be  with  the  devil,  for  in  spite  of  being  so 
devout  and  religious,  she  was  spiteful  as  a  viper. 

Just  imagine " 

"  Jarjaye,  I  have  no  leisure  to  listen  to  thee  :  I 
must  go  and  open  to  a  poor  sweeper  whose  ass  has 
just  sent  him  to  Paradise  with  a  kick." 

"  Oh,  great  Saint  Peter,  since  you  have  been  so 
kind,  and  looking  costs  nothing,  I  beg  you  let  me 
just  peep  into  the  Paradise  which  they  say  is 
so  beautiful." 

"  I  will  consider  it — presently,  ugly  Huguenot 
that  thou  art !  " 

c 


210  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

"  Now  come,  Saint  Peter,  just  remember  that 
down  there  at  Tarascon  my  father,  who  is  a  fisher- 
man, carries  your  banner  in  the  procession,  and 
with  bare  feet " 

"  All  right,"  said  the  saint,  "  for  your  father's 
sake  I  will  allow  it,  but  see  here,  scum  of  the  earth, 
it  is  understood  that  you  only  put  the  end  of  your 
nose  inside." 

"  That  is  enough." 

Then  the  celestial  porter  half  opening  the  door 
said  to  Jarjaye  : 

"  There— look." 

But  he,  suddenly  turning  his  back,  stepped  into 
Paradise  backwards. 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?  "  asked  Saint  Peter. 

"  The  great  light  dazzles  me,"  replied  the 
Tarasconais,  "  I  must  go  in  backwards.  But, 
as  you  ordered,  when  I  have  put  in  my  nose, 
be  easy,  I  will  go  no  further." 

Now,  thought  he,  delighted,  I  have  got  my  nose 
in  the  hay. 

The  Tarasconais  was  in  Paradise. 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  "  how  happy  one  feels  !  how 
beautiful  it  is  !  What  music  !  " 

After  a  moment  the  doorkeeper  said  : 

"  When  you  have  gaped  enough,  you  will  go  out, 
for  I  have  no  more  time  to  waste." 


"THE   PROVENCAL   ALMANAC'      211 

"  Don't  you  worry,"  said  Jarjaye.  "  If  you 
have  anything  to  do,  go  about  your  business.  I 
will  go  out  when  I  will  go  out.  I  am  not  the  least 
in  a  hurry." 

"  But  that  was  not  our  agreement !  " 

"  My  goodness,  holy  man,  you  seem  very  dis- 
tressed !  It  would  be  different  if  there  were  not 
plenty  of  room.  But  thank  God,  there  is  no 
squash  !  " 

"  But  I  ask  you  to  go,  for  if  the  good  God  were 
to  pass  by " 

"  Oh !  you  arrange  that  as  you  can.  I  have 
always  heard,  that  he  who  finds  himself  well  off, 
had  better  stay.  I  am  here — so  I  stay." 

Saint  Peter  frowned  and  stamped.  He  went  to 
find  St.  Yves. 

"  Yves,"  he  said,  "  You  are  a  barrister — you 
must  give  me  an  opinion." 

"  Two  if  you  like,"  replied  Saint  Yves. 

"  I  am  in  a  nice  fix !  This  is  my  dilemma," 
and  he  related  all.  "Now  what  ought  I  to 
do?" 

"  You  require,"  said  Saint  Yves,  "  a  good 
solicitor,  and  must  then  cite  by  bailiff  the  said 
Jarjaye  to  appear  before  God." 

They  went  to  look  for  a  good  solicitor,  but  no 
one  had  ever  seen  such  a  person  in  Paradise.  They 


212  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

asked  for  a  bailiff — still  more  impossible  to  find. 
Saint  Peter  was  at  his  wits'  end. 

Just  then  Saint  Luke  passed  by. 

"  Peter,  you  look  very  melancholy  !  Has  our 
Lord  been  giving  you  another  rebuke  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  dear  fellow,  don't  talk  of  it — I  am  in 
the  devil  of  a  fix,  do  you  see.  A  certain  Jarjaye 
has  got  into  Paradise  by  a  trick,  and  I  don't  know 
how  to  get  him  out." 

"  Where  does  he  come  from,  this  Jarjaye?" 

"  From  Tarascon." 

"  A  Tarasconais  ?  "  cried  Saint  Luke.  "  Oh  ! 
what  an  innocent  you  are  !  There  is  nothing, 
nothing  easier  than  to  make  him  go  out.  Being, 
as  you  know,  a  friend  of  cattle,  the  patron  of  cattle- 
drovers,  I  am  often  in  the  Camargue,  Aries, 
Beaucaire,  Nimes,  Tarascon,  and  I  know  that 
people.  I  have  studied  their  peculiarities,  and 
how  to  manage  them.  Come — you  shall  see." 

At  that  moment  there  went  by  a  flight  of  cherubs, 

"  Little  ones  !  "  called  Saint  Luke,  "  here, 
here  !  " 

The  cherubs  descended. 

"  Go  quietly  outside  Paradise — and  when  you 
get  in  front  of  the  door,  run  past  crying  out : 
'  The  oxen — the  oxen  !  ' 

So  the  cherubs  went  outside  Paradise  and  when 


"THE   PROVEN£AL   ALMANAC"      213 

they  were  in  front  of  the  door  they  rushed  past 
crying,  "  Oxen,  oxen !  Oh  see,  see  the  cattle- 
drover  !  " 

Jarjaye  turned  round,  amazed. 

'  Thunder  !     What,  do  they  drive  cattle  here  ? 
I  am  off !  "  he  cried. 

He  rushed  to  the  door  like  a  whirlwind  and, 
poor  idiot,  went  out  of  Paradise. 

Saint  Peter  quickly  closed  the  door  and  locked 
it,  then  putting  his  head  out  of  the  grating  : 

"  Well,  Jarjaye,"  he  called  jeeringly,  "  how  do 
you  find  yourself  now  ?  " 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter,"  replied  Jarjaye.  "  If 
they  had  really  been  cattle  I  should  not  have 
regretted  my  place  in  Paradise  i  " 

And  so  saying  he  plunged,  head  foremost,  into 
the  abyss. 

(Almanack  Provenfal,  1864.) 


THE  FROG  OF  NARBONNE 

I 

Young  Pignolet,  journeyman  carpenter,  nick- 
named the  "  Flower  of  Grasse,"  one  afternoon 
in  the  month  of  June  returned  in  high  spirits 


214  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

from  making  his  tour  of  France.  The  heat  was 
overpowering.  In  his  hand  he  carried  his  stick 
furbished  with  ribbons,  and  in  a  packet  on  his 
back  his  implements  (chisels,  plane,  mallet)  folded 
in  his  working-apron.  Pignolet  climbed  the  wide 
road  of  Grasse  by  which  he  had  descended  when  he 
departed  some  three  or  four  years  before.  On 
his  way,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  Com- 
panions of  the  Guild  of  Duty,  he  stopped  at 
Sainte-Baume "  the  tomb  of  Master  Jacques, 
founder  of  the  Association.  After  inscribing 
his  surname  on  a  rock,  he  descended  to  Saint- 
Maximin,  to  pay  his  respects  and  take  his  colours 
from  Master  Fabre,  he  who  inaugurates  the 
Sons  of  Duty.  Then,  proud  as  Caesar,  his  ker- 
chief on  his  neck,  his  hat  smart  with  a  bunch  of 
many-coloured  ribbons,  and  hanging  from  his  ears 
two  little  compasses  in  silver,  he  valiantly  strode 
on  through  a  cloud  of  dust,  which  powdered  him 
from  head  to  foot. 

What  a  heat !  Now  and  again  he  looked  at  the 
fig-trees  to  see  if  there  was  any  fruit,  but  they  were 
not  yet  ripe.  The  lizards  gaped  in  the  scorched 
grass,  and  the  foolish  grasshopper,  on  the  dusty 
olives,  the  bushes  and  long  grass,  sang  madly  in 
the  blazing  sun. 

"  By    all    the   Saints,  what    heat  !  "    Pignolet 


"THE   PROVENCAL   ALMANAC"     215 

ejaculated  at  intervals.  Having  some  hours  pre- 
viously drank  the  last  drop  from  his  gourd,  he 
panted  with  thirst,  and  his  shirt  was  soaking. 
"But  forwards!"  he  said.  "Soon  we  will  be 
at  Grasse.  Oh  heavens,  what  a  blessing !  what  a 
joy  to  embrace  my  father,  my  mother,  and  to 
drink  from  a  jug  of  water  of  the  spring  of  Grasse ! 
Then  to  tell  of  my  tour  through  France  and  to 
kiss  M'ion  on  her  fresh  cheeks,  and,  soon  as  the 
feast  of  the  Madeleine  arrives  to  marry  her,  and 
never  leave  home  any  more.  Onward,  Pignolet — 
only  another  little  step  !  " 

At  last  he  is  at  the  entrance  to  Grasse,  and  in 
four  strides  at  his  father's  workshop. 


II 

"  My  boy  !  Oh,  my  fine  boy,"  cried  the  old 
Pignol,  leaving  his  work,  "  welcome  home.  Mar- 
guerite !  the  youngster  is  here  !  Run,  draw  some 
wine,  prepare  a  meal,  lay  the  cloth.  Oh  !  the 
blessing  to  see  thee  home  again  !  How  art  thou  ?  " 

"  Not  so  bad,  God  be  thanked.  And  all  of  you, 
at  home,  father,  are  you  thriving  ?  " 

"  Oh !  like  the  poor  old  things  we  are  .  .  .  but 
hasn't  he  grown  tall,  the  youngster ! "  And  all  the 
world  embraced  him,  father,  mother,  neighbours, 


216  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

friends,  and  the  girls  !  They  took  his  packet 
from  him  and  the  children  fingered  admiringly 
the  fine  ribbons  on  his  hat  and  walking-stick. 
The  old  Marguerite,  with  brimming  eyes,  quickly 
lighted  the  stove  with  a  handful  of  chips,  and 
while  she  floured  some  dried  haddock  wherewith 
to  regale  the  young  man,  the  old  man  sat  down  at 
a  table  with  his  son,  and  they  drank  to  his  happy 
return,  clinking  glasses. 

"  Now  here,"  began  old  Master  Pignol,  "  in  less 
than  four  years  thou  hast  finished  thy  tour  of 
France  and  behold  thee,  according  to  thy  account, 
passed  and  received  as  Companion  of  the  Guild  of 
Duty  !  How  everything  changes  !  In  my  time  it 
required  seven  years,  yes,  seven  good  years,  to 
achieve  that  honour.  It  is  true,  my  son,  that  there 
in  the  shop  I  gave  thee  a  pretty  good  training,  and 
that  for  an  apprentice,  already  thou  didst  not 
handle  badly  the  plane  and  the  jointer.  But  any 
way,  the  chief  thing  is  thou  shouldst  know  thy 
business,  and  thou  hast,  so  at  least  I  believe,  now 
seen  and  known  all  that  a  fine  fellow  should  know, 
who  is  son  of  a  master." 

"  Oh  father,  as  for  that,"  replied  the  young  man, 
"  without  boasting,  I  think  nobody  in  the  car- 
penter's shop  could  baffle  me." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  old  man,  "  see  here  while 


"THE   PROVENQAL   ALMANAC"     217 

the  cod-fish  is  singing  in  the  pot,  just  relate  to  me 
what  were  the  finest  objects  thou  didst  note  in 
running  round  the  country  ?  " 

III 

"  To  begin  with,  father,  you  know  that  on  first 
leaving  Grasse,  I  went  over  to  Toulon  where  I 
entered  the  Arsenal.  It's  not  necessary  to  tell 
you  all  that  is  inside  there,  you  have  seen  it  as 
well  as  I." 

'  Yes,  pass  on,  I  know  it." 

"  After  leaving  Toulon  I  went  and  hired  myself 
out  at  Marseilles,  a  fine  large  town,  advantageous 
for  the  workman,  where  some  comrades  pointed 
out  to  me,  a  sea-horse  which  serves  as  a  sign  at 
an  inn." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Faith,  from  there,  I  went  north  to  Aix,  where 
I  admired  the  sculptures  of  the  porch  of  Saint- 
Saviour." 

"  I  have  seen  that." 

"  Then,  from  there,  we  went  to  Aries,  and  we 
saw  the  roof  of  the  Commune  of  Aries." 

"  So  well  constructed  that  one  cannot  imagine 
how  it  holds  itself  in  the  air." 

"  From  Aries,  my  father,  we  went  to  the  city 


2i8  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

of  Saint-Gille,  and  there  we  saw  the  famous 
Vis " 

"  Yes,  yes,  a  wonder  both  in  structure  and  out- 
line. Which  shows  us,  my  son,  that  in  other  days 
as  well  as  to-day  there  were  good  workmen." 

"  Then  we  directed  our  steps  from  Saint-Gille 
to  Montpellier,  and  there  they  showed  us  the  cele- 
brated Shell  .  .  .  ." 

"  Oh  yes — which  is  in  the  Vignolle,  and  the 
book  calls  it  the  '  horn  of  Montpellier.'  ' 

"  That's  it ;  and  from  there  we  marched  to 
Narbonne." 

"  Ah  !  that  is  what  I  was  waiting  for  !  " 

"  But  why,  my  father  ?  At  Narbonne  I  saw 
the  '  Three  Nurses,'  and  then  the  Archbishop's 
palace,  also  the  wood  carvings  in  the  church  of 
Saint-Paul." 

"  And  then  ?  " 

"  My  father,  the  song  says  nothing  more  than  : 

"  '  Carcassone  and  Narbonne  are  two  very 
good  towns,  to  take  on  the  way  to  Beziers ;  Pezenas 
is  quite  nice;  but  the  prettiest  girls  are  at 
Montpellier.'  " 

"  Why  bungler !     Didst  thou  not  see  the  Frog  ?  " 

"  But  what  frog  ?  " 

"  The  Frog  which  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  font 
of  the  church  of  Saint  Paul.  Ah  !  I  am  no  longer 


"THE   PROVENCAL   ALMANAC'      219 

surprised  that  thou  hast  finished  so  quickly  thy 
tour  of  France,  booby  !  The  frog  at  Narbonne  ! 
the  masterpiece  which  men  go  to  see  from  all  the 
ends  of  the  earth  !  And  this  idiot,"  cried  the  old 
Pignol  getting  more  and  more  excited,  "  this 
wicked  waster,  who  gives  himself  out  as  '  com- 
panion/ has  not  even  seen  the  Frog  at  Narbonne  ! 
Oh  !  that  a  son  of  a  master  should  have  to  hang 
his  head  for  shame  in  his  father's  house.  No,  my 
son,  never  shall  that  be  said.  Now  eat,  drink,  and 
go  to  thy  bed,  but  to-morrow  morning,  if  thou 
wilt  be  on  good  terms  with  me,  return  to  Narbonne 
and  see  the  Frog  !  " 


IV 

Poor  Pignolet  knew  that  his  father  was  not  one 
to  retract  and  that  he  was  not  joking.  So  he  ate, 
drank,  went  to  bed,  and  the  next  morning,  at 
dawn,  without  further  talk,  having  stocked  his 
knapsack  with  food,  he  started  off  to  Narbonne. 

With  his  feet  bruised  and  swollen,  exhausted 
by  heat  and  thirst,  along  the  dusty  roads  and 
highway  tramped  poor  Pignolet. 

At  the  end  of  seven  or  eight  days  he  arrived  at 
the  town  of  Narbonne,  from  whence,  according 
to  the  proverb,  "  comes  no  good  wind  and  no  good 


220  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

person."  Pignolet — he  was  not  singing  this  time, 
let  it  be  understood — without  taking  the  time  to 
eat  a  mouthful  or  drink  a  drop  at  the  inn,  at  once 
walked  off  to  the  church  of  Saint-Paul  and  straight 
to  the  font  to  look  at  the  Frog. 

And  truly  there  in  the  marble  vase,  beneath  the 
clear  water,  squatted  a  frog  with  reddish  spots, 
so  well  sculptured  that  ne  seemed  alive,  looking  up, 
with  a  bantering  expression  in  his  two  yellow  eyes 
at  poor  Pignolet,  come  all  the  way  from  Grasse 
on  purpose  to  see  him. 

"  Ah,  little  wretch  !  "  cried  the  carpenter  in 
sudden  wrath.  '  Thou  hast  caused  me  to  tramp 
four  hundred  miles  beneath  that  burning  sun  ! 
Take  that  and  remember  henceforth  Pignolet  of 
Grasse  !  " 

And  therewith  the  bully  draws  from  his  knap- 
sack a  mallet  and  chisel.  Bang  ! — at  a  stroke  he 
takes  off  one  of  the  frog's  legs  !  They  say  that 
the  holy  water  became  suddenly  red  as  though 
stained  with  blood,  and  that  the  inside  of  the  font, 
since  then,  has  remained  reddened. 

(Almanack  Provenfal,  1890.) 


"THE   PROVENCAL   ALMANAC"    221 


THE  YOUNG  MONTELAISE 

Once  upon  a  time  there  lived  at  Monteux,  the 
village  of  the  good  Saint-Gent  and  of  Nicolas 
Saboly,  a  girl  fair  and  fine  as  gold.  They  called 
her  Rose.  She  was  the  daughter  of  an  inn- 
keeper. And  as  she  was  good  and  sang  like  an 
angel,  the  cure  of  Monteux  placed  her  at  the  head 
of  the  choristers  of  his  church. 

It  happened  one  year  that,  for  the  feast  of  the 
patron  Saint  of  Monteux,  the  father  of  Rose 
engaged  a  solo  singer. 

This  singer,  who  was  young,  fell  in  love  with  the 
fair  Rose,  and  faith,  she  fell  in  love  with  him. 
Then,  one  fine  day,  these  two  children,  without 
much  ado,  were  married,  and  the  little  Rose 
became  Madame  Bordas.  Good-bye  to  Monteux  ! 
They  went  away  together.  Ah !  how  delightful  it 
was,  free  as  the  air  and  young  as  the  bubbling 
spring  of  water,  to  live  without  a  care,  in  the  full 
tide  of  love,  and  sing  for  a  living. 

The  beautiful  fete  where  Rose  first  sang  was 
that  of  Sainte-Agathe,  the  patroness  of  Maillane. 

It  was  at  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix  (now  Cafe  du 
Soleil),  and  the  room  was  full  as  an  egg.  Rose, 
not  more  frightened  than  a  sparrow  on  a  wayside 


222  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

willow,  stood  straight  up  on  the  platform,  with  her 
fair  hair,  and  pretty  bare  arms,  her  husband  at 
her  feet  accompanying  her  on  the  guitar.  The 
place  was  thick  with  smoke,  for  it  was  full  of  pea- 
sants, from  Graveson,  Saint-Remy,  Eyrague,  be- 
sides those  of  Maillane.  But  one  heard  not  a 
word  of  rough  language.  They  only  said  : 

"  Isn't  she  pretty !  And  such  a  fine  style  ! 
She  sings  like  an  organ  !  and  she  does  not  come 
from  afar — only  just  from  Monteux." 

It  is  true  that  Rose  only  gave  them  beautiful 
songs.  She  sang  of  her  native  land,  the  flag, 
battles,  liberty  and  glory,  and  with  such  pas- 
sionate fervour  and  enthusiasm  it  stirred  all 
hearts.  Then,  when  she  had  finished  she  cried, 
"  Long  live  Saint  Gent !  " 

Applause  followed  enough  to  bring  down  the 
house.  The  girl  descended  among  the  audience 
and  smiling,  made  the  collection.  The  sous 
rained  into  the  wooden  bowl,  and  smiling  and 
content  as  though  she  had  a  hundred  thousand 
francs,  she  poured  the  money  into  her  husband's 
guitar,  saying  to  him  : 

"  Here — see — if  this  lasts,  we  shall  soon  be 
rich  !  " 


THE  PROVENCAL  ALMANAC"  223 


II 

When  Madame  Bordas  had  done  all  the  fetes 
of  our  neighbourhood,  she  became  ambitious  to 
try  the  towns.  There,  as  in  the  villages,  the 
Montelaise  shone.  She  sang  "  la  Pologne  "  with 
her  flag  in  her  hand,  she  put  into  it  so  much  soul, 
such  emotion,  that  she  made  every  one  tremble 
with  excitement. 

At  Avignon,  at  Cette,  Toulouse  and  Bordeaux 
she  was  adored  by  the  people.  At  last  she  said  : 

"  Now  only  Paris  remains." 

So  she  went  to  Paris.  Paris  is  the  pinnacle  to 
which  all  aspire.  There  as  in  the  provinces  she 
soon  became  the  idol  of  the  people. 

It  was  during  the  last  days  of  the  Empire; 
'  the  chestnut  was  commencing  to  smoke/  and 
Rose  Bordas  sang  the  Marseillaise.  Never  had  a 
singer  given  this  song  with  such  enthusiasm, 
such  frenzy;  to  the  workmen  of  the  barri- 
cades she  represented  an  incarnation  of  joyous 
liberty,  and  Tony  Revillon,  a  Parisian  poet  of 
the  day,  wrote  of  her  in  glowing  strains  in 
the  newspaper. 


224  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 


III 

Then,  alas !  came  quickly,  one  on  the  heels  of  the 
other,  war,  defeat,  revolution,  and  siege,  followed 
by  the  Commune  and  its  devil's  train.  The 
foolish  Montelaise,  lost  in  it  all  as  a  bird  in  the 
tempest,  intoxicated  by  the  smoke,  the  whirl,  the 
favour  of  the  populace,  sang  to  them  "  Marianne  " 
like  a  little  demon.  She  would  have  sung  in  the 
water — still  better  in  the  fire. 

One  day  a  riot  surrounded  her  in  the  street  and 
carried  her  off  like  a  straw  to  the  palace  of  the 
Tuileries. 

The  reigning  populace  were  giving  a  fete  in 
the  Imperial  salon.  Arms,  black  with  powder, 
seized  "  Marianne " — for  Madame  Bordas  was 
Marianne  to  them — and  mounted  her  on  the  throne 
in  the  midst  of  red  flags. 

"  Sing  to  us,"  they  cried,  "  the  last  song  that 
shall  echo  round  the  walls  of  this  accursed  palace." 

And  the  little  Montelaise,  with  a  red  cap  on  her 
fair  hair,  sang — "  La  Canaille." 

A  formidable  cry  of  "  Long  live  the  Republic  !  " 
followed  the  last  refrain,  and  a  solitary  voice, 
lost  in  the  crowd,  sang  out  in  answer,  "  Vivo 
Sant  Gent." 


'THE   PROVENCAL   ALMANAC'      225 

Rose  could  not  see  for  the  tears  which  brimmed 
in  her  blue  eyes  and  she  became  pale  as  death. 

"  Open,  give  her  air !  "  they  cried,  seeing  that 
she  was  about  to  faint. 

Ah  no  !  poor  Rose,  it  was  not  air  she  needed,  it 
was  Monteux,  it  was  Saint  Gent  in  the  mountains 
and  the  innocent  joy  of  the  fetes  of  Provence. 

The  crowd,  in  the  meanwhile,  with  its  red  flags 
went  off  shouting  through  the  open  door. 

Over  Paris,  louder  and  louder,  thundered  the 
cannonade,  sinister  noises  ran  along  the  streets, 
prolonged  fusillades  were  heard  in  the  distance, 
the  smell  of  petroleum  was  overpowering,  and 
before  very  long  tongues  of  fire  mounted  from 
the  Tuileries  up  to  the  sky. 

Poor  little  Montelaise  !  No  one  ever  heard  of 
her  again. 

(Almanack  Provencal,  1873.) 


THE  POPULAR  MAN 

The  Mayor  of  Gigognan  invited  me,  last  year, 
to  his  village  festivity.  We  had  been  for  seven 
years  comrades  of  the  ink-horn  at  the  school  of 
Avignon,  but  since  then  had  never  met. 

"  By  the  blessing  of  God,"  he  cried  on  seeing 

p 


226  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

me,  "  thou  art  just  the  same,  lively  as  a  blue- 
bottle, handsome  as  a  new  penny — straight  as  an 
arrow — I  would  have  known  thee  in  a  thousand." 

"  Yes,  I  am  just  the  same,"  I  replied,  "  only 
my  sight  is  a  little  shorter,  my  temples  a  little 
wrinkled,  my  hair  a  little  whitened,  and — when 
there  is  snow  on  the  hills,  the  valleys  are  seldom 
hot." 

"  Bah  !  "  said  he,  "  my  dear  boy,  the  old  bull 
runs  on  a  straight  track,  only  he  who  desires  it 
grows  old.  Come,  come  to  dinner." 

According  to  time-honoured  custom  a  village 
fete  in  Provence  is  the  occasion  for  real  feasting, 
and  my  friend  Lassagne  had  not  failed  to  prepare 
such  a  lordly  feast  as  one  might  set  before  a  king. 
Dressed  lobster,  fresh  trout  from  the  Sorgue, 
nothing  but  fine  meats  and  choice  wines,  a  little 
glass  to  whet  the  appetite  at  intervals,  besides 
liqueurs  of  all  sorts,  and  to  wait  on  us  at  table  a 
young  girl  of  twenty  who — I  will  say  no  more  ! 

We  had  arrived  at  the  dessert,  when  all  at  once 
we  heard  in  the  street  the  cheering  buzz  of  the 
tambourine.  The  youth  of  the  place  had  come, 
according  to  custom,  to  serenade  the  mayor. 

"  Open  the  door,  Fransonnette,"  cried  the 
worthy  man.  "  Go  fetch  the  hearth-cakes  and 
come,  rinse  out  the  glasses." 


MISTRAL  AND  HIS  DOG  PAN-PERDU. 


"THE  PROVENCAL  ALMANAC"     227 

In  the  meanwhile  the  musicians  banged  away 
at  their  tambourines.  When  they  had  finished, 
the  leaders  of  the  party  with  flowers  in  their  button- 
holes entered  the  room  together  with  the  town- 
clerk  proudly  carrying  high  on  a  pole  the  prizes 
prepared  for  the  games,  and  followed  by  the 
dancers  of  the  farandole  and  a  crowd  of  girls. 

The  glasses  were  filled  with  the  good  wine  of 
Alicante.  All  the  cavaliers,  each  one  in  his  turn, 
cut  a  slice  of  cake,  and  clicked  glasses  all  round 
to  the  health  of  his  Worship  the  Mayor.  Then  his 
Worship  the  Mayor,  when  all  had  drunk  and  joked 
for  a  while,  addressed  them  thus  : 

"  My  children,  dance  as  much  as  you  like,  amuse 
yourselves  as  much  as  you  can,  and  be  courteous 
to  all  strangers.  You  have  my  permission  to  do 
anything  you  like,  except  fight  or  throw  stones." 

"  Long  live  Monsieur  Lassagne  !  "  cried  the 
young  people.  They  went  off  and  the  faran- 
dole commenced.  When  we  were  alone  again  I 
inquired  of  my  friend  : 

"  How  long  is  it  that  thou  hast  been  Mayor  of 
Gigognan  ?  " 

"  Fifty  years,  my  dear  fellow." 

"  Seriously  ?     Fifty   years  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  is  fifty  years.  I  have  seen  eleven 
governments,  my  boy,  and  I  do  not  intend  to  die, 


228  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

if  the  good  God  helps  me,  until  I  have  buried 
another  half-dozen." 

"  But  how  hast  thou  managed  to  keep  thy  sash  * 
amidst  so  much  confusion  and  revolution  ?  " 

"  Eh  !  my  good  friend,  there  is  the  asses'  bridge. 
The  people,  the  honest  folk,  require  to  be  led. 
But  in  order  to  lead  them  it  is  necessary  to  have 
the  right  method.  Some  say  drive  with  the  rein 
tight.  Others,  drive  with  the  rein  loose ;  but  I — 
do  you  know  what  I  say  ? — take  them  along 
gaily." 

Look  at  the  shepherds  ;  the  good  shepherds 
are  not  those  who  have  always  a  raised  stick  ; 
neither  are  they  those  that  lie  down  beneath  a 
willow  and  sleep  in  the  corner  of  the  field.  The 
good  shepherd  is  he  who  walks  quietly  ahead  of 
his  flock  and  plays  the  pipes.  The  beasts  who  feel 
themselves  free,  and  who  are  really  so,  browse  with 
appetite  on  the  pasture  and  the  thistle.  When 
they  are  satisfied  and  the  hour  comes  to  return 
home,  the  shepherd  pipes  the  retreat  and  the  con- 
tented flock  follow  him  to  the  sheepfold.  My 
friend,  I  do  the  same,  I  play  on  the  pipes,  and  my 
flock  follow." 

"  Thou  playest  on  the  pipes ;    that  is  all  very 
well  ....     But  still,  among  thy  flock  thou  hast 
*  The  Mayor's  sash  of  office. 


'THE  PROVENQAL  ALMANAC"     229 

some  Whites,  and  some  Reds,  some  headstrong  and 
some  queer  ones,  as  there  are  everywhere  !  Now, 
when  an  election  for  a  deputy  takes  place,  for 
example,  how  dost  thou  manage  ?  " 

"  How  I  manage  ?  Eh,  my  good  soul.  I  leave 
it  alone.  For  to  say  to  the  Whites,  '  Vote  for  the 
Republic/  would  be  to  lose  one's  breath  and  one's 
Latin,  and  to  say  to  the  Reds,  '  Vote  for  Henri  V.,' 
would  be  as  effectual  as  to  spit  on  that  wall." 

"  But  the  undecided  ones,  those  who  have  no 
opinion,  the  poor  innocents,  all  the  good  people 
who  tack  cautiously  as  the  wind  blows  ?  " 

"  Ah,  those  there,  when  sometimes  in  the  barber's 
shop  they  ask  me  my  advice,  '  Hold,'  I  say  to 
them,  '  Bassaquin  is  no  better  than  Bassacan. 
Whether  you  vote  for  Bassaquin  or  Bassacan 
this  summer  you  will  have  fleas.  For  Gigognan 
it  is  better  to  have  a  good  rain  than  all  the  pro- 
mises of  the  candidates.  Ah  !  it  would  be  a 
different  matter  if  you  nominated  one  of  the 
peasant  class.  But  so  long  as  you  do  not  nominate 
peasants  for  deputies,  as  they  do  in  Sweden  and 
Denmark,  you  will  not  be  represented.  The 
lawyers,  doctors,  journalists,  small  shopkeepers  of 
all  sorts  whom  you  return,  ask  but  one  thing  : 
to  stay  in  Paris  as  much  as  possible,  raking  in  all 
they  can,  and  milking  the  poor  cow  without 


230  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

troubling  their  heads  about  our  Gigognan  !  But 
if,  as  I  say,  you  delegated  the  peasants,  they  would 
think  of  saving,  they  would  diminish  the  big 
salaries,  they  would  never  make  war,  they  would 
increase  the  canals,  they  would  abolish  the  duties, 
and  hasten  to  settle  affairs  in  order  to  return  before 
the  harvest.  Just  imagine  that  there  are  in  France 
twenty  million  tillers  of  the  soil,  and  they  have 
not  the  sense  to  send  three  hundred  of  them  to 
represent  the  land  !  What  would  they  risk  by 
trying  it  ?  It  would  be  difficult  for  the  peasants' 
deputy  to  do  worse  than  these  others  !  " 

And  every  one  replies  :  "  Ah  !  that  Monsieur 
Lassagne  !  though  he  is  joking,  there  is  some  sense 
in  what  he  says." 

"  But,"  I  said,  "as  to  thee  personally,  thee 
Lassagne,  how  hast  thou  managed  to  keep  thy 
popularity  in  Gigognan,  and  thy  authority  for 
fifty  years?" 

"  Oh,  that  is  easy  enough,"  he  laughed.  "  Come, 
let  us  leave  the  table,  and  take  a  little  turn. 
When  we  have  made  the  tour  of  Gigognan  two  or 
three  times,  thou  wilt  know  as  much  as  I  do." 

We  rose  from  the  table,  lit  our  cigars  and  went 
out  to  see  the  fun.  In  the  road  outside  a  game  of 
bowls  was  going  on.  One  of  the  players  in  throw- 
ing his  ball  unintentionally  struck  the  mark, 


'THE   PROVENCAL  ALMANAC"     231 

replacing  it  by  his  own  ball,  and  thus  gaining 
two  points. 

"  Clever  rascal,"  cried  Monsieur  Lassagne, 
'  that  is  something  like  play.  My  compliments, 
Jean-Claude  !  I  have  seen  many  a  game  of  bowls 
but  on  my  life  never  a  better  shot  !  " 

We  passed  on.  After  a  little  we  met  two  young 
girls. 

"  Now  look  at  that,"  said  Lassagne  in  a  loud 
voice ;  ;<  they  are  like  two  queens.  What  a 
pretty  figure,  what  a  lovely  face  !  And  those 
earrings  of  the  last  fashion  !  Those  two  are  the 
flowers  of  Gigognan  !  " 

The  two  girls  turned  their  heads  and  smilingly 
greeted  us.  In  crossing  the  square,  we  passed 
near  an  old  man  seated  in  front  of  his  door. 

"  Well  now,  Master  Quintrand,"  said  Monsieur 
Lassagne,  "  shall  we  enter  the  lists  this  year  with 
the  first  or  second  class  of  wrestlers  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  my  poor  sir,  we  shall  wrestle  with  no  one 
at  all,"  replied  Master  Quintrand. 

"  Do  you  remember  Master  Quintrand,  the  year 
when  Meissonier,  Guequine,  Rabasson,  presented 
themselves  on  the  meadow,  the  three  best  wrestlers 
of  Provence,  and  you  threw  them  on  their 
shoulders,  all  three  of  them  !  " 

"  Eh,  you  don't  need  to  remind  me,"  said  the  old 


232  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

wrestler,  lighting  up.  "  It  was  the  year  when  they 
took  the  citadel  of  Antwerp.  The  prize  was  a 
hundred  crowns  and  a  sheep  for  the  second  winner. 
The  prefect  of  Avignon  shook  me  by  the  hand  ! 
The  people  of  B6darride  were  ready  to  fight  with 
those  of  Courtezon,  on  my  account.  .  .  .  Ah ! 
what  a  time,  compared  with  the  present !  Now 
their  wrestling  will  .  .  .  Better  not  speak  of  it, 
for  one  no  longer  sees  men,  not  men,  dear  sir.  .  .  . 
Besides,  they  have  an  understanding  with  each 
other." 

We  shook  hands  with  the  old  man  and  continued 
our  walk. 

"  Come  now,"  I  said  to  Lassagne,  "  I  begin  to 
understand — it  is  done  with  the  soap  ball  \  " 
"  I  have  not  finished  yet,"  he  made  answer. 
Just  then  the  village  priest  came  out  of  his 
presbytery. 

"  Good  day,  gentlemen  !  " 

"  Good  day,  Monsieur  le  Cure,"  said  Lassagne. 
"  Ah,  one  moment,  since  we  have  met  I  want  to 
tell  you  :  this  morning  at  Mass,  I  noticed  that  our 
church  is  becoming  too  small,  especially  on  fete 
days.  Do  you  think  it  would  be  a  mistake  to 
attempt  enlarging  it  ?  " 

"  On  that  point,  Monsieur  le  Maire,  I  am  of 
your  opinion — it  is  true  that  on  feast  days  one  can 
scarcely  turn  round." 


'THE   PROVENCAL  ALMANAC"     233 

"  Monsieur  le  Cure,  I  will  see  about  it :  at  the 
first  meeting  of  the  Municipal  Council  I  will  put 
the  question,  and  if  the  prefecture  will  come  to 
our  assistance " 

"  Monsieur  le  Maire,  I  am  delighted,  and  I  can 
only  thank  you." 

As  we  left  the  ramparts,  we  saw  coming  a  flock 
of  sheep  taking  up  all  the  road.  Lassagne  called 
to  the  shepherd. 

"  Just  at  the  sound  of  thy  bells,  I  said,  '  this 
must  be  Georges  !  '  And  I  was  not  mistaken  : 
what  a  pretty  flock  !  what  fine  sheep  !  But  how 
well  you  manage  to  feed  them !  I  am  sure  that, 
taking  one  with  another,  they  are  not  worth  less 
than  ten  crowns  each !  " 

"  That  is  true  certainly,"  replied  Georges. 
"  I  bought  them  at  the  Cold  Market  this  winter  ; 
nearly  all  had  lambs,  and  they  will  give  me  a 
second  lot  I  do  believe." 

"  Not  only  a  second  lot,  but  such  beasts  as  those 
could  give  you  twins  !  " 

"  May  God  hear  you  !  Monsieur  Lassagne  !  " 

We  had  hardly  finished  talking  to  the  shepherd 
when  we  overtook  an  old  woman  gathering 
chicory  in  the  ditches. 

"'Hold,  it  is  thou,  Berengere,"  said  Lassagne, 
accosting  her.  "  Now  really  from  behind  with 
thy  red  kerchief  I  took  thee  for  Tereson,  the 


234  MEMOIRS  OF  MISTRAL 

daughter-in-law  of  Cacha,  thou  art  exactly  like 
her  !  " 

"  Me  !  Oh  Monsieur  Lassagne,  but  think  of 
it  !  I  am  seventy  years  old  !  " 

"  Oh  come,  come,  from  behind  if  thou  couldst 
see  thyself,  thou  hast  no  need  of  pity.  I  have 
seen  worse  baskets  at  the  vintage  !  " 

"  This  Monsieur  Lassagne,  he  must  always  have 
his  joke,"  said  the  old  woman,  shaking  with 
laughter ;  and  turning  to  me  she  added  : 

"  Believe  me,  sir,  it  is  not  just  a  way  of  speaking, 
but  this  Monsieur  Lassagne  is  the  cream  of  men. 
He  is  friendly  with  all.  He  will  chat,  see  you, 
with  the  smallest  in  the  country  even  to  the 
babies  !  That  is  why  he  has  been  fifty  years 
Mayor  of  Gigognan,  and  will  be  to  the  end  of  his 
days." 

"  Well,  my  friend,"  said  Lassagne  to  me,  "  It 
is  not  I,  is  it,  that  have  said  it !  All  of  us  like  nice 
things,  we  like  compliments,  and  we  are  all  grati- 
fied by  kind  manners.  Whether  dealing  with 
women,  with  kings,  or  with  the  people,  he  who 
would  reign  must  please.  And  that  is  the  secret 
of  the  Mayor  of  Gigognan. 

(Almanack  Provenpal,  1883.) 


CHAPTER  XIV 
JOURNEY  TO  LES  SAINTES-MARIES 

ALL  my  life  I  had  heard  of  the  Camargue  and  of 
Les  Saintes-Maries  and  the  pilgrimage  to  their 
shrine,  but  I  had  never  as  yet  been  there.  In  the 
spring  of  the  year  1855  I  wrote  to  my  friend 
Mathieu,  ever  ready  for  a  little  trip,  and  proposed 
we  should  go  together  and  visit  the  saints. 

He  agreed  gladly,  and  we  met  at  Beaucaire  in 
the  Condamine  quarter,  from  where  a  pilgrim 
party  annually  started  on  May  24  to  the  sea-coast 
village  of  Les  Saintes-Maries. 

A  little  after  midnight  Mathieu  and  I  set  forth 
with  a  crowd  of  country  men  and  women,  young 
girls  and  children,  packed  into  waggons  close  as 
sardines  in  a  tin ;  we  numbered  fourteen  in  our 
conveyance. 

Our  worthy  charioteer,  one  of  those  typical 
Provenceaux  whom  nothing  dismays,  seated  us  on 
the  shaft,  our  legs  dangling.  Half  the  time  he 
walked  by  the  side  of  his  horse,  the  whip  round 
his  neck,  constantly  relighting  his  pipe.  When  he 
wanted  a  rest  he  sat  on  a  small  seat  niched  in 


236  MEMOIRS  OF  MISTRAL 

between  the  wheels,  which  the  drivers  call 
"  carrier  of  the  weary." 

Just  behind  me,  enveloped  in  her  woollen  wrap 
and  stretched  on  a  mattress  by  her  mother's  side, 
her  feet  planted  unconcernedly  in  my  back,  was  a 
young  girl  named  Alarde.  Not  having,  however, 
as  yet  made  the  acquaintance  of  these  near 
neighbours,  Mathieu  and  I  conversed  with  the 
driver,  who  at  once  inquired  from  whence  we  hailed. 
On  our  replying  from  Maillane,  he  remarked  that 
he  had  already  guessed  by  our  speech  that  we  had 
not  travelled  far. 

"  The  Maillane  drivers,"  he  added,  "  '  upset  on  a 
flat  plain ' ;  you  know  that  saying  ?  " 

"  Not  all  of  them,"  we  laughed. 

"  'Tis  but  a  jest,"  he  answered.  "  Why  there 
was  one  I  knew,  a  carter  of  Maillane,  who  was 
equipped,  I  give  you  my  word,  like  Saint  George 
himself — Ortolan,  his  name  was." 

"  Was  that  many  years  ago  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Aye,  sirs,  I  am  speaking  of  the  good  old  days 
of  the  wheel,  before  those  devourers  with  their 
railroads  had  come  and  ruined  us  all :  the  days 
when  the  fair  of  Beaucaire  was  in  its  splendour, 
and  the  first  barge  which  arrived  for  the  fair  was 
awarded  the  finest  sheep  in  the  market,  and  the 
victorious  bargeman  used  to  hang  the  sheep-skin 


LES  SAINTES-MARIES  237 

as  a  trophy  on  the  main-mast.  Those  were  the 
days  in  which  the  towing-horses  were  insufficient 
to  tug  up  the  Rhone  the  piles  of  merchandise 
which  were  sold  at  the  fair  of  Beaucaire,  and  every 
man  who  drove  a  waggon,  carriage,  cart,  or  van 
was  cracking  his  whip  along  the  high  roads  from 
Marseilles  to  Paris,  and  from  Paris  to  Lille,  right 
away  into  Flanders.  Ah,  you  are  too  young  to 
remember  that  time." 

Once  launched  on  his  pet  theme  Lamoureux 
discoursed,  as  he  tramped  along,  till  the  light  of  the 
moon  waned  and  gave  place  to  dawn.  Even 
then  the  worthy  charioteer  would  have  continued 
his  reminiscences  had  it  not  been  that,  as  the  rays 
of  the  awakening  sun  lit  up  the  wide  stretches  of 
the  great  plains  of  the  Camargue  lying  between 
the  delta  of  the  two  Rhones,  we  arrived  at  the 
Bridge  of  Forks. 

In  our  eyes,  even  a  more  beautiful  sight  than 
the  rising  sun  (we  were  both  about  five  and 
twenty)  was  the  awakening  maiden  who,  as  I  have 
mentioned  already,  had  been  packed  in  just 
behind  us  with  her  mother.  Shaking  off  the  hood 
of  her  cloak,  she  emerged  all  smiling  and  fresh, 
like  a  goddess  of  youth.  A  dark  red  ribbon  caught 
up  her  blonde  hair  which  escaped  from  the  white 
»  coif.  With  her  delicate  clear  skin,  curved  lips 


238  MEMOIRS  OF  MISTRAL 

half  opened  in  a  rapt  smile,  she  looked  like  a  flower 
shaking  off  the  morning  dew.  We  greeted  her 
cordially,  but  Mademoiselle  Alarde  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  us.  Turning  to  her  mother  she  inquired 
anxiously  : 

"  Mother,  say — are  we  still  far  from  the  great 
saints  ?  " 

"  My  daughter,  we  are  still,  I  should  say,  eighteen 
or  twenty  miles  distant." 

"  Will  he  be  there,  my  betrothed  ? — say  then 
— will  he  be  there  ?  "  she  asked  her  mother. 

"  Oh  hush,  my  darling,"  answered  the  mother 
quickly. 

"  Ah,  how  slowly  the  time  goes,"  sighed  the 
young  girl.  Then  discovering  all  at  once  that  she 
was  ravenously  hungry,  she  suggested  breakfast. 
Spreading  a  linen  cloth  on  her  knees,  she  and  her 
mother  thereupon  brought  out  of  a  wicker  basket 
a  quantity  of  provisions — bread,  sausage,  dates, 
figs,  oranges — and,  without  further  ceremony, 
set  to  work.  We  wished  them  "  good  appetite," 
whereupon  the  young  girl  very  charmingly  in- 
vited us  to  join  them,  which  we  did  on  condition 
that  we  contributed  the  contents  of  our  knapsacks 
to  the  repast.  Mathieu  at  once  produced  two 
bottles  of  good  Nerthe  wine,  which,  having 
uncorked,  we  poured  into  a  cup  and  handed  round 


LES  SAINTES-MARIES  239 

to  each  of  the  party  in  turn,  including  the  driver ; 
so  behold  us  a  happy  family. 

At  the  first  halt  Mathieu  and  I  got  down  to 
stretch  our  legs.  We  inquired  of  our  friend 
Lamoureux  who  the  young  girl  might  be.  He 
answered  that  hers  was  a  sad  story.  One  of  the 
prettiest  girls  in  Beaucaire,  she  had  been  jilted 
about  three  months  ago  by  her  betrothed,  who  had 
gone  off  to  another  girl,  rich,  but  ugly  as  sin.  The 
effect  of  this  had  been  to  send  Alarde  almost  out 
of  her  mind ;  the  beautiful  girl  was  in  fact  not  quite 
sane,  declared  Lamoureux,  though  to  look  at  her 
one  would  never  guess  it.  The  poor  mother,  at 
her  wits'  end  to  know  what  to  do,  was  taking  her 
child  to  Les  Saintes-Maries  to  see  if  that  would 
divert  her  mind  and  perhaps  cure  her. 

We  expressed  our  astonishment  that  any  man 
could  be  such  a  scoundrel  as  to  forsake  a  young 
girl  so  lovely  and  sweet-looking. 

Arrived  at  the  J  asses  d'Albaron,  we  halted  to 
let  the  horses  have  a  feed  from  their  nose-bags. 
The  young  girls  of  Beaucaire  who  were  with  us 
took  this  opportunity  of  surrounding  Alarde,  and 
singing  a  roundel  in  her  honour  : 

Au  branle  de  ma  tante 

Le  rossignol  y  chante  . 

Oh  que  de  roses  !     Oh  que  de  fleurs          ~r^'  ' 
Belle,  belle  Alarde  tournez  vous. 


240  MEMOIRS  OF  MISTRAL 

La  belle  s'est  tourn6e, 

Son  beau  1'a  regarde  : 

Oh  que  de  roses  !     Oh  que  de  fleurs. 

Belle,  belle  Alarde,  embrassez  vous. 

But  the  result  of  this  well-meant  attention  was 
very  disastrous,  for  the  poor  Alarde  burst  out  into 
hysterical  laughter,  crying,  "  My  lover,  my  lover," 
as  though  she  were  demented. 

Soon  after,  however,  we  resumed  our  journey, 
for  the  sky,  which  since  dawn  had  been  flecked 
with  clouds,  became  every  moment  more  threaten- 
ing.    The  wind  blew  straight  from  the  sea,  sweep- 
ing the  black  masses  of  cloud  towards  us  till  all 
the  bue  sky  was  obliterated.     The  frogs  and  toads 
croaked  in  the  marshes,  and  our  long  procession 
of  waggons   struggled    slowly  through    the  vast 
salt    plains  of  the    Camargue.      The    earth  felt 
the  coming  storm.      Flights  of  wild   ducks  and 
teal  passed  with  a  warning  cry  over  our  heads. 
The    women    looked    anxiously    at    the    black 
sky.     "  We  shall    be  in   a   nice   plight   if    that 
storm  takes  us  in  the  middle  of  the  Camargue," 
said  they. 

'  Well,  you  must  put  your  skirts  over  your 
heads,"  laughed  Lamoureux.  "  It  is  a  known 
fact  that  such  clouds  bring  rain." 

We  passed  a  mounted  bull-driver,  his  trident  in 


LES   SAINTES-MARIES  241 

his  hand,  collecting  his  scattered  beasts.  "  You'll 
get  wet,"  he  prophesied  cheerfully. 

A  drizzle  commenced ;  then  larger  drops  an- 
nounced that  the  water  was  going  to  fall  in  good 
earnest.  In  no  time  the  wide  plain  was  converted 
into  a  watery  waste.  Seated  beneath  the  awning 
of  the  waggon,  we  saw  in  the  distance  troops  of  the 
Camargue  horses  shaking  their  long  manes  and 
tails  as  they  started  off  briskly  for  the  rising 
grounds  and  the  sandbanks. 

Down  came  the  rain  !  The  road,  drowned  in 
the  deluge,  became  impracticable.  The  wheels  got 
clogged,  the  beasts  were  unable  to  drag  us  further. 
Far  as  the  eye  could  reach  there  was  nothing  to  be 
seen  but  one  vast  lake. 

"  All  must  get  down  !  "  cried  the  drivers  unani- 
mously. "  Women  and  girls  too,  if  you  do  not 
wish  to  sleep  beneath  the  tamarisk-bush." 

"  Walk  in  the  water  ?  "  cried  some  in  dismay. 

"  Walk  barefoot,  my  dears,"  answered  La- 
moureux  ;  "  thus  you  will  earn  the  great  pardon 
of  which  you  all  have  need,  for  I  know  the  sins  of 
some  of  you  are  weighing  devilish  heavy." 

Old  and  young,  women  and  girls,  all  got  down, 
and  with  laughter  and  shrieks,  every  one  began  to 
prepare  themselves  for  wading,  taking  off  their 
shoes  and  tucking  up  their  clothes.  The  drivers 

Q 


242  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

took  the  children  astride  on  their  shoulders,  and 
Mathieu  gallantly  offered  himself  to  the  old  lady 
in  our  waggon,  the  mother  of  the  pretty  Alarde  : 

"  If  you  mount  on  my  back,"  he  said,  "  I  will 
undertake  to  carry  you  safely  to  the '  Dead  Goat.' ' 
The  old  lady,  who  was  so  fat  she  walked  with  diffi- 
culty even  on  dry  ground,  did  not  refuse  such  a 
noble  offer. 

"  You,  my  Frederic,  can  charge  yourself  with 
Alarde,"  said  Mathieu  with  a  wink  to  me,  "  and 
we  will  change  from  time  to  time  to  refresh 
ourselves,  eh  ?  " 

And  forthwith  we  each  took  up  our  burden 
without  further  ceremony,  an  example  which 
was  soon  followed  by  all  the  young  men  in  the 
other  waggons. 

Mathieu  and  his  old  girl  laughed  like  fools.  As 
for  myself,  when  I  felt  the  soft  round  arms  of 
Alarde  round  my  neck  as  she  held  the  umbrella 
over  our  heads,  I  own  it  to  this  day,  I  would  not 
have  given  up  that  journey  across  the  Camargue 
in  the  rain  and  slush  for  a  king's  ransom. 

"  Oh  goodness,  if  my  betrothed  could  see  me 
now,"  repeated  Alarde  at  intervals ;  "  my  be- 
trothed, who  no  longer  loves  me — my  boy,  my 
handsome  boy ! " 

It  was  in  vain  that  I  tried  to  steal  in  with  my 


LES   SAINTES-MARIES  243 

little  compliments  and  soft  speeches,  she  neither 
heard  nor  saw  me — but  I  could  feel  her  breath  on 
my  neck  and  shoulder ;  I  had  only  to  turn  my  head 
a  little  and  I  could  have  kissed  her,  her  hair 
brushed  against  mine  ;  the  close  proximity  of  this 
youth  and  freshness  bewitched  me,  and  while  she 
dreamt  only  of  her  lover,  I,  for  my  part,  tried  to 
imagine  myself  a  second  Paul  carrying  my  Virginia. 

Just  at  the  happiest  moment  of  my  illusion, 
Mathieu,  gasping  beneath  the  weight  of  the  fat 
mamma,  cried  out  : 

"  Let  us  change  for  a  bit !  I  can  go  no  further, 
my  dear  fellow." 

At  the  trunk  of  a  tamarisk,  therefore,  we  halted 
and  exchanged  burdens,  Mathieu  taking  the 
daughter,  while  I,  alas,  had  the  mother.  And  thus 
for  over  two  miles,  paddling  in  water  up  to  our 
knees,  we  travelled,  changing  at  intervals  and 
making  light  of  fatigue  because  of  the  reward  we 
both  got  out  of  the  romantic  rSle  of  Paul ! 

At  last  the  heavy  rain  began  to  abate,  the  sky 
to  clear  and  the  roads  to  become  visible.  We 
remounted  the  waggons,  and  about  four  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  suddenly  we  saw  rise  out  of  the 
distant  blue  of  sea  and  sky,  with  its  Roman  belfry, 
russet  merlons  and  buttresses,  the  church  of  Les 
Saintes-Maries. 


244  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

There  was  a  general  exclamation  of  joyful 
greeting  to  the  great  saints,  for  this  far-away  shrine, 
standing  isolated  on  the  edge  of  the  great  plain, 
is  the  Mecca  of  all  the  Gulf  of  Lyons.  What 
impresses  one  most  is  the  harmonious  grandeur  of 
the  vast  sweep  of  land  and  sea,  arched  over  by  the 
limitless  dome  of  sky,  which,  more  perfectly  here 
than  anywhere  else,  appears  to  embrace  the  entire 
terrestrial  horizon. 

Lamoureux  turned  to  us  saying  :  "  We  shall 
just  arrive  in  time  to  perform  the  office  of  lowering 
the  shrines ;  for,  gentlemen,  you  must  know  that 
it  is  we  of  Beaucaire  to  whom  is  reserved  the  right 
before  all  others  of  turning  the  crane  by  which  the 
relics  of  the  saints  are  lowered." 

The  sacred  remains  of  Mary,  mother  of  James 
the  Less,  Mary  Salome,  mother  of  James  and  John, 
and  of  Sarah,  their  servant,  are  kept  in  a  small 
chapel  high  up  just  under  the  dome.  From  this 
elevated  position,  by  means  of  an  aperture  which 
gives  on  to  the  church,  the  shrines  are  slowly 
lowered  by  a  rope  over  the  heads  of  the  worshipping 
crowd. 

So  soon  as  we  had  unharnessed,  which  we  did 
on  the  sandbanks  covered  with  tamarisk  and 
orach  by  which  the  village  is  surrounded,  we  made 
our  way  quickly  to  the  church. 


LES   SAINTES-MARIES  245 

"  Light  them  up  well,  the  dear  blessed  saints," 
cried  a  group  of  Montpellier  women  selling  candles 
and  tapers,  medals  and  images  at  the  church 
door. 

The  church  was  crammed  with  people  of  all 
kinds,  from  Languedoc,  from  Aries,  the  maimed 
and  the  halt,  together  with  a  crowd  of  gypsies, 
all  one  on  the  top  of  the  other.  The  gypsies  buy 
bigger  candles  than  anybody  else,  but  devote  their 
attention  exclusively  to  Saint  Sarah,  who,  according 
to  their  belief,  was  one  of  their  nation.  It  is  here 
at  Les  Saintes-Maries  that  these  wandering  tribes 
hold  their  annual  assemblies,  and  from  time  to 
time  elect  their  queen. 

It  was  difficult  to  get  in  at  the  church.  A 
group  of  market  women  from  Nimes,  muffled  up 
in  black  and  dragging  after  them  their  twill 
cushions  whereon  to  sleep  all  night  in  the  church, 
were  quarrelling  for  the  chairs.  "  I  had  this  before 
you." — "  No,  but  I  hired  it,"  &c.  A  priest  was 
passing  "  The  Sacred  Arm  "  from  one  to  the  other 
to  be  kissed  ;  to  the  sick  people  they  were  giving 
glasses  of  briny  water  drawn  from  the  saints'  well 
in  the  middle  of  the  nave,  and  which  on  that  day 
they  say  becomes  sweet.  Some,  by  way  of  a 
remedy,  were  scraping  the  dust  off  an  ancient 
marble  block  fixed  in  the  wall,  and  reported  to  be 


246  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

the  "  saints'  pillow."  A  smell  of  burning  tapers, 
incense,  heat  and  stuffiness  suffocated  one,  while 
one's  ears  were  deafened  by  each  group  singing 
their  own  particular  canticles  at  the  pitch  of  their 
voices. 

Then  in  the  air,  slowly  the  shrines  begin  to 
descend,  and  the  crowd  bursts  into  shouts  and 
cries  of  "  O  great  Saint  Marys ! "  And  as  the  cord 
unrolls,  screams  and  contortions  increase,  arms 
are  raised,  faces  upturned,  every  one  awaits  a 
miracle.  Suddenly,  from  the  end  of  the  church, 
rushing  across  the  nave,  as  though  she  had  wings,  a 
beautiful  girl,  her  fair  hair  falling  about  her, 
flung  herself  towards  the  floating  shrines,  crying  : 
"  O  great  saints — in  pity  give  me  back  the  love 
of  my  betrothed." 

All  rose  to  their  feet.  "  It  is  Alarde !  "  exclaimed 
the  people  from  Beaucaire,  while  the  rest  murmured 
awestruck,  "  It  is  Saint  Mary  Magdalen  come  to 
visit  her  sisters."  Every  one  wept  with  emotion. 

The  following  day  took  place  the  procession 
on  the  sea-shore  to  the  soft  murmur  and 
splash  of  the  breaking  waves.  In  the  distance, 
on  the  high  seas,  two  or  three  ships  tacked 
about  as  though  coming  in,  while  all  along  the 
coast  extended  the  long  procession,  ever  seeming  to 
lengthen  out  with  the  moving  line  of  the  waves. 


LES   SAINTES-MARIES  247 

It  was  just  here,  says  the  legend,*  that  the 
three  Saint  Marys  in  their  skiff  were  cast  ashore 
in  Provence  after  the  death  of  Our  Lord.  And 
looking  out  over  the  wide  glistening  sea,  that 
lies  in  the  midst  of  such  visions  and  memories, 
illuminated  by  the  radiant  sunshine,  it  seemed 
to  us  in  truth  we  were  on  the  threshold  of 
Paradise. 

Our  little  friend  Alarde,  looking  rather  pale  after 
the  emotions  of  the  previous  day,  was  one  of  a 
group  of  maidens  chosen  to  bear  on  their  shoulders 
the  "  Boat  of  the  Saints,"  and  many  murmurs  of 
sympathy  followed  her  as  she  passed.  This  was 
the  last  we  saw  of  her,  for,  so  soon  as  the  saints  had 
reascended  to  their  chapel,  we  took  the  omnibus 
for  Aigues-Mortes,  together  with  a  crowd  of  people 
returning  to  Montpellier  and  Lundy,  who  beguiled 
the  way  by  singing  in  chorus  hymns  to  the  Saints 
of  the  Sea. 

STANZAS  FROM  "MIREILLE"f 

The  sisters  and  the  brothers,  we 
Who  followed  him  ever  constantly, 

*  Mistral  has  glorified  this  legend  in  his  Mireille,  where 
the  saints  appear  to  the  young  girl  and  recount  to  her  their 
Odyssey  (pp.  427-437,  Mireille}.—  C.  E.  M. 

t  For  Provencal  text  see  p.  324. 


248  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

To  the  raging  sea  were  cruelly  driven 
In  a  crazy  ship  without  a  sail, 
Without  an  oar,  'mid  the  angry  gale  ; 
We  women  could  only  weep  and  wail — 

The  men  uplifted  their  eyes  to  Heaven  ! 


A  gust  tempestuous  drives  the  ship 

O'er  fearsome  waves,  in  the  wild  storm's  grip  ; 

Martial  and  Saturninus,  lowly 

In  prayer  kneel  yonder  on  the  prow  ; 
Old  Trophimus  with  thoughtful  brow 
Sits  closely  wrapped  in  his  mantle  now 

By  Maximus,  the  Bishop  holy. 

There  on  the  deck,  amid  the  gloom, 

Stands  Lazarus,  of  shroud  and  tomb 

Always  the  mortal  pallor  keeping  ; 
His  glance  the  raging  gulf  defies  ; 
And  with  the  doomed  ship  onward  flies 
Martha  his  sister  ;   there,  too,  lies 

Magdalen,  o'er  her  sorrows  weeping. 

Upon  a  smooth  and  reckless  strand 

Alleluiah  !  our  ship  doth  land. 

Prostrate  we  fall  on  the  wet  sand,  crying  : 
"  Our  lives,  that  He  from  storm  did  save 
Here  are  they  ready,  Death  to  brave, 
And  preach  the  law  that  once  He  gave, 

O  Christ,  we  swear  it,  even  dying  !  " 

At  that  glad  name,  most  glorious  still, 
Noble  Provence  seemed  all  a-thrill ; 


LES   SAINTES-MARIES  249 

Forest  and  moor  throughout  their  being 

Were  stirred  and  answered  that  new  cry  ; 
As  when  a  dog,  his  master  nigh, 
Goes  out  to  meet  him  joyfully, 

And  welcome  gives,  the  master  seeing. 


The  sea  some  shells  to  shore  had  cast  .  .  . 

Thou  gav'st  a  feast  to  our  long  fast — 

Our  Father,  Thou  who  art  in  Heaven  ; 
And  for  our  thirst,  a  fountain  clear 
Rose  limpid  'mid  the  sea-plants  here  ; 
And,  marvellous,  still  rises  near 

The  church  where  we  were  burial  given. 

(Trans.  Alma  Strettell.) 


CHAPTER  XV 
JEAN  ROUSSIERE 

"  GOOD  morning,  Mr.  Frederic.  They  tell  me  that 
you  have  need  of  a  man  on  the  farm." 

"  Yes — from  whence  comest  thou  ?  " 

"  From  Villeneuve,  the  country  of  the  '  lizards  ' 
— near  to  Avignon." 

"  And  what  canst  thou  do  ?  " 

"  A  little  of  everything.  I  have  been  helper 
at  the  oil  mills,  muleteer,  carrier,  labourer,  miller, 
shearer,  mower  if  necessary,  wrestler  on  occasions, 
pruner  of  poplars,  a  high-class  trade,  and  even 
cleaner  of  sewers,  which  is  the  lowest  of  all !  " 

"  And  they  call  thee  ?  " 

"  Jean  Roussiere,  and  Rousseyron — and  Seyron 
for  short." 

"  How  much  do  you  ask  ? — it  is  for  taking  care 
of  the  beasts." 

"  About  fifteen  louis." 

"  I  will  give  thee  a  hundred  crowns." 

"  All  right  for  a  hundred  crowns." 

That  is  how  I  engaged  Jean  Roussiere,  he  who 
taught  me  the  old  folk-melody  of  "Magali" — 


JEAN   ROUSSIERE  251 

a  jovial  fellow  and  made  on  the  lines  of  a  Hercules. 
The  last  year  that  I  lived  at  the  farm,  with  my 
blind  father,  in  the  long  watches  of  our  solitude 
Jean  Roussiere  never  failed  to  keep  me  interested 
and  amused,  good  fellow  that  he  was.  At  his  work 
he  was  excellent  and  always  enlivened  his  beasts 
by  some  cheering  song. 

Naturally  artistic  in  all  he  did,  even  if  it  was 
heaping  a  rick  of  straw  or  a  pile  of  manure,  or 
stowing  away  a  cargo,  he  knew  how  to  give  the 
harmonious  line  or,  as  they  say,  the  graceful  sweep. 
But  he  had  the  defects  of  his  qualities  and  was 
rather  too  fond  of  taking  life  in  an  easy  and 
leisurely  fashion,  even  passing  part  of  it  in  an 
afternoon  nap. 

A  charming  talker  at  all  times,  it  was  worth 
hearing  him  as  he  spoke  of  the  days  when  he  led 
the  big  teams  of  horses  on  the  towing-path,  tugging 
the  barges  up  the  Rhone  to  Valence  and  to  Lyons. 

"  Just  fancy  !  "  he  said,  "  at  the  age  of  twenty, 
I  led  the  finest  turn-out  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhone ! 
A  turn-out  of  twenty-four  stallions,  four  abreast, 
dragging  six  barges  !  Ah,  what  fine  mornings 
those  were,  when  we  set  out  on  the  banks  of  the 
big  river  and  silently,  slowly,  this  fleet  moved  up 
the  stream  !  " 

And  Jean  Roussiere  would  enumerate  all  the 


252  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

places  on  the  two  banks  ;  the  inns,  the  hostesses, 
the  streams,  the  sluices,  the  roads  and  the  fords 
from  Aries  to  the  Revestidou,  from  the  Coucourde 
to  the  Ermitage.  But  his  greatest  happiness  and 
triumph  was  at  the  feast  of  Saint-Eloi. 

"  I  will  show  your  Maillanais,"  he  said,  "  if  they 
have  not  already  seen  it,  how  we  ride  a  little 
mule !  " 

Saint-Eloi  is,  in  Provence,  the  feast  of  the 
agriculturists.  All  over  Provence  on  that  day 
the  village  priests  bless  the  cattle,  asses,  mules 
and  horses ;  and  the  people  owning  the  beasts 
partake  of  the  "  blessed  bread,"  that  excellent 
"  blessed  bread "  flavoured  with  aniseed  and 
yellow  with  eggs,  which  they  call  tortillarde.  At 
Maillane  it  was  our  custom  on  that  day  to  deck  a 
chariot  with  green  boughs  and  harness  to  it  forty 
or  fifty  beasts,  caparisoned  as  in  the  time  of  the 
tournaments,  with  beards,  embroidered  saddle- 
cloths, plumes,  mirrors  and  crescents  of  brass. 
The  whip  was  put  up  to  auction,  that  is  to  say, 
the  office  of  Prior  was  put  up  to  public  auction  : 

"  Thirty  francs  for  the  whip  ! — a  hundred 
francs ! — two  hundred  francs  !  Once — twice — 
thrice  !  " 

The  presidency  of  the  feast  fell  to  the  highest 
bidder.  The  chariot*  of  green  boughs  led  the 


JEAN    ROUSSIERE  253 

procession,  a  cavalcade  of  joyful  labourers,  each 
one  walking  proudly  near  his  own  horse  or  mule, 
and  cracking  his  whip.  In  the  chariot,  accom- 
panied by  the  musicians  playing  the  tambourine 
and  flute,  the  Prior  was  seated.  On  the  mules, 
fathers  placed  their  little  ones  astride,  the  latter 
holding  on  happily  to  the  trappings.  The  horses' 
collars  were  all  ornamented  with  a  cake  of  the 
blessed  bread,  in  the  form  of  a  crown,  and  a  pennon 
in  paper  bearing  a  picture  of  Saint-Eloi ;  and 
carried  on  the  shoulders  of  the  Priors  of  the  past 
years  was  an  image  of  the  saint,  in  full  glory,  like 
a  golden  bishop,  the  crozier  in  his  hand. 

Drawn  by  the  fifty  mules  or  donkeys  round  the 
village  rolled  the  chariot,  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  with 
the  farm  labourers  running  like  mad  by  the  side 
of  their  beasts,  all  in  their  shirt  sleeves,  hats  at 
the  back  of  their  heads,  a  belt  round  the  waist,  and 
low  shoes. 

That  year  Jean  Roussiere,  mounting  our  mule 
Falette,  astonished  the  spectators.  Light  as 
a  cat,  he  jumped  on  the  animal,  then  off  again, 
remounted,  now  sitting  on  one  side,  now  standing 
upright  on  the  crupper,  there  in  turn  doing  the 
goose  step,  the  forked  tree  and  the  frog,  on  the 
mule's  back — in  short,  giving  a  sort  of  Arab  horse- 
man's performance. 


254  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

But  where  he  shone  with  even  greater  lustre 
was  at  the  supper  of  Saint-Eloi,  for  after  the 
chariot  procession  the  Priors  give  a  feast.  Every 
one  having  eaten  and  drunk  their  fill  and  said 
grace,  Roussiere  rose  and  addressed  the  company. 

"  Comrades  !  Here  you  are,  a  crowd  of  good- 
for-nothings  and  rascals,  who  have  kept  the 
Saint-Eloi  for  the  past  thousand  years,  and  yet 
I  will  wager  none  of  you  know  the  history  of  your 
great  patron." 

The  company  confessed  that  all  they  had  heard 
was  that  their  saint  had  been  a  blacksmith. 

"  Yes,  but  I  am  going  to  tell  you  how  he  became 
a  saint."  And  while  soaking  a  crisp  tortillarde 
in  his  glass  of  Tavel  wine,  the  worthy  Roussiere 
proceeded : 

"  Our  Lord  God  the  Father,  one  day  in  Paradise, 
wore  a  troubled  air.  The  child  Jesus  inquired  of 
him  : 

"  '  What  is  the  matter,  my  Father  ?  ' 

"  '  I  have/  replied  God,  '  a  case  that  greatly 
plagues  me.  Hold,  look  down  there  ! ' 

"  '  Where  ?  '  asked  Jesus. 

"  '  Down  there,  in  the  Limousin,  to  the  right  of 
my  finger  :  thou  seest,  in  that  village,  near  the 
city,  a  smithy,  a  large  fine  smithy  ?  ' 

"  '  I  see— I  see.' 


JEAN   ROUSSIERE  255 

'  Well,  my  son,  there  is  a  man  that  I  should 
like  to  have  saved  :  they  call  him  Master  Eloi. 
He  is  a  reliable,  good  fellow,  a  faithful  observer  of 
my  Commandments,  charitable  to  the  poor,  kind- 
hearted  to  every  one,  of  exemplary  conduct, 
hammering  away  from  morning  to  night  without 
evil  speaking  or  blasphemy.  Yes,  he  seems  to  me 
worthy  to  become  a  great  saint.' 

'  And  what  prevents  it  ?  '  asked  Jesus. 
'  His  pride,  my  son.      Because  he  is  a  good 
worker,  a  worker  of  the  first  order,  Eloi  thinks 
that  no  one  on  earth  is  above  him,  and  presump- 
tion is  perdition.' 

"  '  My  Lord  Father,'  said  Jesus,  '  if  you  will 
permit  me  to  descend  to  the  earth  I  will  try  and 
convert  him.' 

'  Go,  my  dear  son.' 

"  And  the  good  Jesus  descended.  Dressed  like 
an  apprentice,  his  tool-bag  on  his  back,  the  divine 
workman  alighted  right  in  the  street  where  Eloi 
dwelt.  Over  the  blacksmith's  door  was  the  usual 
signboard,  and  on  it  this  inscription  : 

"  '  Eloi  the  blacksmith,  master  above  all  other 
masters,  forges  a  shoe  in  two  heatings.' 

"  The  little  apprentice  stepped  on  to  the 
threshold  and  taking  off  his  hat : 

"  '  God   give   you   good-day,    master,  and   to 


256  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

the  company/  said  he ;  '  have  you  need  of  any 
help  ?  ' 

"  '  Not  for  the  moment/  answered  Eloi. 

"  '  Farewell  then,  master  :  it  will  be  for  another 
time.' 

"  And  the  good  Jesus  continued  his  road.  In 
the  street  he  saw  a  group  of  men  talking,  and 
Jesus  said  in  passing  : 

"  '  I  should  not  have  thought  that  in  such  a 
smithy,  where  there  must  be,  one  would  think,  so 
much  doing,  they  would  refuse  me  work.' 

"  '  Wait  a  bit,  my  lad/  said  one  of  the  neigh- 
bours. '  What  salutation  did  you  make  to  Master 
Eloi !  ' 

"  '  I  said,  as  is  usual,  "  God  give  you  good-day, 
master,  and  to  the  company  !  ' 

"  '  Ah,  but  that  is  not  what  you  should  have 
said.  You  should  have  addressed  him  as,  "  Master 
above  all  other  masters."  There,  look  at  the 
board  ! ' 

"  '  That  is  true/  said  Jesus.  '  I  will  try  again.' 
And  with  that  he  returned  to  the  smithy. 

"  '  God  give  you  good-day,  master  above  all 
other  masters.  Have  you  no  need  of  an  appren- 
tice ?  ' 

"  '  Come  in,  come  in/  replied  Eloi.  '  I  have 
been  thinking  that  we  could  give  you  work  also. 


JEAN   ROUSSIERE  257 

But  listen  to  this  once  and  for  all  :  When  you 
address  me,  you  must  say,  "  Master,  above  all 
other  masters,"  see  you — this  is  not  to  boast,  but 
men  like  me,  who  can  forge  a  shoe  in  two  heatings, 
there  are  not  two  in  Limousin  !  ' 

".'  Oh,'  replied  the  apprentice,  '  in  our  country, 
we  do  it  with  one  heating  !  ' 

"  '  Only  one  heating  !  Go  to,  boy,  be  silent 
then — why  the  thing  is  not  possible.' 

"  '  Very  well,  you  shall  see,  master  above  all 
other  masters !  ' 

"  Jesus  took  a  piece  of  iron,  threw  it  into  the 
forge,  blew,  made  up  the  fire,  and  when  the  iron 
was  red — red,  and  incandescent — he  took  it  out 
with  his  hand. 

"  '  Oh — poor  simpleton  ! '  the  head  apprentice 
cried  to  him,  '  thou  wilt  scorch  thy  fingers  !  ' 

"  '  Have  no  fear  ! '  answered  Jesus.  '  Thanks 
to  God,  in  our  country  we  have  no  need  of  pincers.' 
And  the  little  workman  seizes  with  his  hand  the 
iron  heated  to  white  heat,  carries  it  to  the  anvil, 
and  with  his  hammer,  pif,  paf,  in  the  twinkle  of 
an  eye,  stretches  it,  flattens  it,  rounds  it  and  stamps 
it  so  well  that  one  would  have  said  it  was  cast. 

"  '  Oh,  I,  too/  said  Master  Eloi, '  I  could  do  that 
if  I  wanted  to.' 

"He  then  takes  a  piece  of  iron,  throws  it  in  the 

R 


258  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

forge,  blows,  makes  up  the  fire,  and  when  the  iron 
is  red  hot,  goes  to  take  it  as  his  apprentice  had 
done  and  carry  it  to  the  anvil — but  he  burns  his 
fingers  badly  !  In  vain  he  tried  to  hurry,  to 
harden  himself  to  endure  the  burn,  he  was  forced 
to  let  go  his  hold  and  run  for  the  pincers.  In 
the  meantime  the  shoe  for  the  horse  grew  cold— 
and  only  a  few  sparks  burnt  out.  Ah  !  poor 
Master  Eloi,  he  might  well  hammer,  and  put 
himself  in  a  sweat — to  do  it  with  one  heating  was 
impossible. 

"  '  But  listen,'  said  the  apprentice,  '  I  seem  to 
hear  the  gallop  of  a  horse.' 

"  Master  Eloi  at  once  stalked  to  the  door  and  sees 
a  cavalier,  a  splendid  cavalier,  drawing  up  at  the 
smithy.  Now  this  was  Saint-Martin. 

"  *  I  come  a  long  way,'  he  said,  '  my  horse  has 
lost  a  shoe,  and  I  am  in  a  great  hurry  to  find  a 
blacksmith.' 

"  Master  Eloi  bridled  up. 

"  '  My  lord,'  said  he,  "you  could  not  have 
chanced  better.  You  have  come  to  the  first  black- 
smith of  Limousin — of  Limousin  and  of  France, 
who  may  well  call  himself  "  master  of  all  the 
masters,"  and  who  forges  a  shoe  in  two 
heats.  Here  lad,  hold  the  horse's  hoof,'  he 
called. 


JEAN   ROUSSIERE  259 

"  '  Hold  the  hoof  !  '  cried  Jesus.  '  In  our 
country  we  do  not  find  that  necessary.' 

"  '  Well,  what  next/  cried  the  master  black- 
smith, '  that  is  a  little  too  much  !  And  how  can 
one  shoe  a  horse,  in  your  country,  without  holding 
the  hoof  ?  ' 

"  '  But  faith,  nothing  is  easier,  as  you  shall  see.' 

"  And  so  saying,  the  young  man  seized  a  knife, 
went  up  to  the  horse,  and  crack !  cut  off  the  hoof. 
He  carried  it  into  the  smithy,  fastened  it  in  the 
vice,  carefully  heated  the  hoof,  fastened  on  the 
new  shoe  that  he  had  just  made  ;  with  the  shoeing 
hammer  he  knocked  in  the  nails,  then  loosening 
the  vice,  returned  the  foot  to  the  horse,  spat  on  it 
and  fitted  it,  saying,  as  he  made  the  sign  of  the 
Cross,  '  May  God  grant  that  the  blood  dries  up,' 
and  there  was  the  foot  finished,  shod  and  healed 
as  no  one  had  ever  seen  before  and  as  no  one  will 
ever  see  again. 

"  The  first  apprentice  opened  his  eyes  wide 
as  the  palm  of  your  hand,  while  Master  Eloi's 
assistants  began  to  perspire. 

"  '  Ho,'  said  Eloi  at  last,  '  my  faith,  but  I  will 
do  it  like  that — do  it  just  as  well.' 

"  He  sets  himself  to  the  task.  Knife  in  hand  he 
approaches  the  horse,  and  crack !  he  cuts  off  the 
foot,  carries  it  into  the  smithy,  fastens  it  into  the 


260  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

vice,  and  shoes  it  at  his  ease,  just  like  the  young 
apprentice. 

"  But  then  came  the  hitch,  he  must  put  it  back 
in  place.  He  approaches  the  horse,  spits  on  the 
shoe,  applies  it  to  the  fetlock  as  best  he  can. 
Alas !  the  salve  does  not  stick,  the  blood  flows,  and 
the  foot  falls  !  Then  was  the  proud  soul  of  Master 
Eloi  illuminated  :  and  he  went  back  into  the  smithy 
there  to  prostrate  himself  at  the  feet  of  the  young 
apprentice.  But  Jesus  had  disappeared,  and  also 
the  horse  and  the  cavalier.  Tears  gushed  from 
the  eyes  of  Master  Eloi ;  he  recognised,  poor  man, 
that  there  was  a  master  above  him,  and  above  all. 
Throwing  aside  his  apron  he  left  the  forge  and 
went  out  into  the  world  to  teach  the  word  of  the 
Lord  Jesus." 

Great  applause  followed  the  conclusion  of  this 
legend,  applause  both  for  Saint-Eloi  and  for  Jean 
Roussiere. 

Before  I  leave  the  worthy  Jean  I  must  mention 
that  it  was  he  who  sang  to  me  the  popular  air  to 
which  I  put  the  serenade  of  Magali,  an  air  so  sweet, 
so  melodious,  that  many  regretted  not  finding  it 
in  Gounod's  opera  of  Mireille.  The  only  person 
in  all  the  world  that  I  ever  heard  sing  that  par- 
ticular air  was  Jean  Roussiere,  who  was  apparently 


JEAN   ROUSSIERE  261 

the  last  to  retain  it.  It  was  a  strange  coincidence 
that  he  should  come,  by  chance  as  it  were,  and  sing 
it  to  me,  at  the  moment  when  I  was  looking 
for  the  Provencal  note  of  my  love-song,  and  thus 
enable  me  to  save  it  just  at  the  moment  when,  like 
so  many  other  things,  it  was  about  to  be  relegated 
to  oblivion. 

The  name  of  Magali,  an  abbreviation  of  Mar- 
guerite, I  heard  one  day  as  I  was  returning  home 
from  Saint-Remy.  A  young  shepherdess  was 
tending  a  flock  of  sheep  along  the  Grande  Roubine. 
"  Oh !  Magali,  art  not  coming  yet  ?  "  cried  a  boy 
to  her  as  he  passed  by.  The  limpid  name  struck 
me  as  so  pretty  that  at  once  I  sang  : 

MAGALI.* 

"  O  Magali,  beloved  maid, 

Forth  from  thy  casement  lean  ! 
And  listen  to  my  serenade 

Of  viols  and  tambourine." 

i 

"  Were  ever  stars  so  many  seen  ! 

The  wind  to  rest  is  laid  ; 
But  when  thy  face  thou  shalt  unveil, 
These  stars  shall  pale  !  " 

"  So  as  for  rustling  leaves,  I  care 

For  this  thy  roundelay  ! 
I'll  turn  into  an  eel,  and  fare 

To  the  blonde  sea  away  !  " 

*  For  Provencal  text  see  p.  326. 


262  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

"  O  Magali,  if  thou  wilt  play 

At  turning  fish,  beware  ! 
For  I  the  fisherman  will  be 
And  fish  for  thee." 

"  Oh,  and  if  thou  thy  nets  would'st  fling 

As  fisherman,  then  stay  ! 
I'll  be  a  bird  upon  the  wing, 

And  o'er  the  moors  away." 

"  0  Magali,  and  would'st  thou  stray, 

A  wild  bird  wandering  ? 

I'll  take  my  gun  and  speedily 

Give  chase  to  thee." 

"  For  partridge  or  for  warbler's  breed 
If  thou  thy  snares  would'st  lay, 

Upon  the  vast  and  flowery  mead 
As  flower  I'll  hide  away." 

'  O  Magali,  if  thou  a  spray 

Of  blossom  art  indeed, 
The  limpid  brook  then  I  will  be 
And  water  thee." 

"  And  if  thou  art  the  limpid  brook, 
I'll  be  a  cloud,  and  heigh  ! 

I  shall  be  gone,  ere  thou  can'st  look, 
To  far  Americay  !  " 

"  O  Magali,  and  though  the  way 

To  furthest  Ind  you  took, 
I'd  make  myself  the  wind  at  sea 
And  carry  thee." 


JEAN   ROUSSIERE  263 

"  Wert  thou  the  wind,  by  some  device 

I'd  fly  another  way  ; 
I'd  be  the  shaft,  that  melts  the  ice,  » 

From  the  great  orb  of  day." 

"  O  Magali,  wert  thou  a  ray      1 

Of  sunshine — in  a  trice 
The  emerald  lizard  I  would  be, 
And  drink  in  thee." 

"  And  wert  thou,  hidden  'mid  the  fern, 

A  salamander — nay, 
I'd  be  the  full  moon,  that  doth  turn, 

For  witches,  night  to  day." 

"  O  Magali,  would'st  thou  essay 

To  be  the  moon,  I'd  learn 
A  soft  and  silver  mist  to  be 
Enfolding  thee." 

"  But  though  the  mist  enfold,  not  so 

Shalt  thou  me  yet  waylay  ! 
For  I  a  pure,  fair  rose  shall  grow 

And  'mid  my  branches  sway." 

"  O  Magali,  and  though  you  may 

Be  loveliest  rose,  yet  know 
That  I  the  butterfly  shall  be 
Which  kisseth  thee." 

"  Go  to  !  pursuer,  thou'lt  not  win, 
Though  thou  should'st  run  for  aye  ; 

For  in  some  forest  oak's  rough  skin 
I  will  myself  array." 


264  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

"  O  Magali,  though  thou  grow  grey 

The  doleful  tree  within, 
A  branch  of  ivy  will  I  be 
Embracing  thee." 

"  And  if  thou  dost,  thou  wilt  embrace 

Only  an  oak's  decay, 
For  in  the  convent  of  Saint-Blaise, 

A  White  Nun,  I  will  pray." 

"  0  Magali,  when  comes  that  day, 

There  in  the  holy  place 
Father  Confessor  will  I  be, 
And  hark  to  thee." 

"  Pass  but  the  gate,  and  in  my  stead 
Thou  wilt  find,  well-a-day  ! 

The  nuns  all  sadly  busied 
Me  in  my  shroud  to  lay." 

"  O  Magali,  and  if  cold  clay 

Thou  make  thyself,  and  dead, 
Earth  I'll  become,  and  there  thou'lt  be, 
At  last,  for  me." 

"  I  half  begin  to  think,  in  sooth, 

Thou  speakest  earnestly ! 
Then  take  my  ring  of  glass,  fair  youth, 

In  memory  of  me." 

"Thou  healest  me,  O  Magali ! 
And  mark  how,  of  a  truth, 
The  stars,  since  thou  did'st  drop  thy  veil, 
Have  all  grown  pale  ! " 

(Trans.  Alma  Strettell.) 


JEAN   ROUSSIERE  265 

It  was  in  the  autumn  of  this  year  1855  that  the 
first  cloud  overshadowed  my  happy  youth.     It 
was  the  sorrow  of  losing  my  father.     He  had 
become  quite  blind,  and  as  far  back  as  the  pre- 
vious Christmas  we  had  been  anxious  about  him, 
For  on  that  occasion  he  whom  the  festival  had 
always  filled  with  joy,  this  year  seemed  overcome 
by  a  deep  depression  which  we  felt  augured  badly 
for  the  future.     It  was  in  vain  that  as  usual  we 
lit  the  three  sacred  candles  and  spread  the  table 
with  the  three  white  cloths  ;  in  vain  that  I  offered 
him  the  mulled  wine,  hoping  to  hear  from  his  lips 
the  sacramental  "  Good  cheer."     Groping,  alas  ! 
with  his  long  thin  arms,  he  seated  himself  with 
never  a  word.     In  vain  also  my  mother  tried  to 
tempt  him  with  the  dishes  of  Christmas,  one  after 
the  other — the  plate  of  snails,  the  fish  of  Martique, 
the  almond  nougat,  the  cake  of  oil.     Wrapt  in 
pensive  thought  the  poor  old  man  supped  in  silence. 
A  shadow,  a  forerunner  of  death,  was  over  him, 
and  his  blindness  oppressed  him.     Once  he  looked 
up  and  spoke. 

"  Last  year  at  Christmas  I  could  still  see  the 
light  of  the  candles ;  but  this  year,  nothing, 
nothing.  Help  me,  O  blessed  Virgin." 

In  the  first  days  of  September  he  departed  this 
life.  Having  received  the  last  sacrament  with 


266  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

sincerity  and  faith,  the  strong  faith  of  simple 
souls,  he  turned  to  his  family,  who  all  stood 
weeping  around  his  bed  : 

11  Come,  come,  my  children,"  he  said  to  us.  u  I 
am  going — and  to  God  I  give  thanks  for  all  that  I 
owe  him  :  my  long  life  and  my  labour,  which  He 
has  blessed." 

Then  he  called  me  to  him  and  asked  : 

"  Frederic,  what  sort  of  weather  is  it  ?  " 

"  It  rains,  my  father,"  I  replied. 

"  Ah  well,"  he  said,  "if  it  rains  it  is  good  for 
the  seeds." 

Then  he  gave  up  his  soul  to  God.  I  can 
never  forget  that  moment !  They  covered  his 
head  with  the  sheet,  and  near  the  bed,  that  big 
bed  in  the  white  alcove  where  in  broad  daylight 
I  had  been  born,  they  lit  a  long  pale  taper.  The 
shutters  of  the  room  were  half  closed.  The 
labourers  were  ordered  to  unyoke  at  once.  The 
maid,  in  the  kitchen,  turned  over  the  cauldrons 
and  pots  on  the  dresser. 

Around  the  ashes  of  the  fire,  which  had  been 
extinguished,  we  seated  ourselves  in  a  silent  circle, 
my  mother  at  the  corner  of  the  big  chimney, 
bearing,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  widows 
of  Provence,  as  sign  of  mourning,  a  white  fichu  on 
her  head.  And  all  day  the  neighbours,  men  and 


THERESE  ROUMANILLE  (MADAME  BOISSIERE), 
2ND  QUEEN  OF  THE  FELIBRES. 


JEAN   ROUSSIERE  267 

women,  relations  and  friends,  came  to  offer  us  their 
sympathy,  greeting  us  one  after  another  with  the 
customary  "  May  our  Lord  preserve  you  !  " 

And  lengthily,  piously,  they  went  through  the 
condolences  in  honour  of  the  "  poor  master." 

The  next  day  all  Maillane  assisted  at  the  funeral 
ceremony  ;  and  in  their  prayers  for  him,  the  poor 
added  always  : 

"  God  grant  that  as  many  angels  may  accom- 
pany him  to  heaven  as  he  has  given  us  loaves  of 
bread  !  " 

The  coffin  was  borne  by  hand  with  cloths,  the 
lid  off  in  order  that  for  the  last  time  the  people 
might  see  him  with  crossed  hands  in  his  white 
shroud.  Behind  walked  Jean  Roussiere  carry- 
ing the  wax  taper  which  had  watched  over  his 
master. 

As  for  me,  while  the  passing-bell  sounded  in  the 
distance,  I  went  to  weep  alone  in  the  fields,  for  the 
tree  of  the  house  had  fallen.  The  Mas  du  Juge, 
the  home  of  my  childhood,  was  now  desolate  and 
deserted  in  my  eyes  as  though  it  had  lost  its 
guardian  spirit.  The  head  of  the  family,  Master 
Fran£ois  my  father,  had  been  the  last  of  the  patri- 
archs of  Provence,  a  faithful  preserver  of  traditions 
and  customs,  and  the  last,  at  least  for  me,  of  that 
austere  generation,  religious,  humble,  and  self- 


268  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

controlled,  who  had  patiently  gone  through  the 
miseries  and  convulsions  of  the  Revolution,  giving 
to  France  the  disinterested  devotion  which  flamed 
up  in  her  great  holocausts,  and  the  indefatigable 
service  of  her  big  armies. 

One  week  later  the  division  of  property  took 
place.  The  farm  produce  and  the  "  stacks," 
the  horses,  oxen,  sheep,  poultry — all  were  divided 
into  lots.  The  furniture,  our  dear  old  things,  the 
big  four-poster  beds,  the  kneading-trough  of  iron- 
work, the  meal-chest,  the  polished  wardrobes,  the 
carved  kneading-trough,  the  table,  the  mirror, 
all  which,  ever  since  my  childhood,  I  had  seen 
as  a  part  of  my  home  life,  the  rows  of  plates, 
the  painted  china,  which  never  left  the  shelves  of 
the  dresser,  the  sheets  of  hemp  that  my  mother 
herself  had  woven ;  agricultural  implements, 
waggons,  ploughs,  harness,  tools,  utensils  of  every 
kind — all  these  were  collected  and  set  out  on  the 
threshing-floor  of  the  farm,  to  be  divided  in  three 
divisions  by  an  expert.  The  servants,  hired  either 
by  the  year  or  the  month,  left  one  after  the  other. 
And  to  the  paternal  farm,*  which  was  not  in  my 
division,  I  had  to  say  good-bye. 

One  afternoon,  with  my  mother  and  the  dog, 

*  The  elder  half-brother  of  Fr£d£ric  Mistral  inherited  the 
Mas  du  Juge. 


JEAN   ROUSSIERE  269 

and  Jean  Roussiere  who  acted  as  charioteer,  we 
departed  with  heavy  hearts,  to  dwell  henceforth 
in  the  house  at  Maillane  which  in  the  division  had 
fallen  to  me. 

It  was  from  personal  experience  I  could  write 
later  on  in  Mireille  of  home-sickness  : 

Comme  au  mas,  comme  au  temps  de  mon  p6re, 
helas !  helas ! 


CHAPTER  XVI 
"MIREILLE" 

THE  following  year  (1856),  at  the  time  of  the  fete 
of  Sainte-Agathe,  patroness  of  Maillane,  I  received 
a  visit  from  a  well-known  poet  in  Paris.  Fate, 
or  rather  the  good  star  of  the  Felibres,  brought 
him  just  in  the  propitious  hour.  It  was  Adolphe 
Dumas — a  fine  figure  of  a  man  some  fifty  years 
old,  of  an  aesthetic  pallor,  with  long  hair  turning 
grey  and  a  brown  moustache  like  a  lap-dog.  His 
black  eyes  were  full  of  fire,  and  he  had  a  habit  of 
accompanying  his  ringing  voice  with  a  fine  waving 
gesture  of  the  hand.  He  was  tall,  but  lame, 
dragging  a  crippled  leg  as  he  walked.  He  reminded 
one  of  a  cypress  of  Provence  agitated  by  the  wind. 

"Is  it  you,  then,  Monsieur  Mistral,  who  write 
verses  in  the  Provengal  ?  "  he  began  to  me  in  a 
joking  tone  as  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Yes,  it  is  I,"  I  replied.  "  At  your  service, 
Monsieur." 

"  Certainly,  I  hope  that  you  can  serve  me. 
The  Minister  for  Public  Instruction,  Monsieur 
Fortoul,  of  Digne,  has  given  me  the  commission 


"MIREILLE"  271 

to  come  and  collect  the  popular  songs  of  Provence, 
such  as  '  Le  Mousse  de  Marseille/  '  La  Belle  Mar- 
goton,'  '  Les  Noces  du  Papillon/  and  if  you  know 
of  any,  I  am  here  to  collect  them." 

And  talking  over  this  matter  I  sang  to  him, 
as  it  happened,  the  serenade  of  Magali,  freshly 
arranged  for  the  poem  of  Mireille. 

Adolphe  Dumas  started  up  all  alert. 

"  But  where  did  you  find  that  pearl  ?  "  he  cried. 

"It  is  part,"  I  answered,  "of  a  Proven9al 
poem  in  twelve  cantos  to  which  I  am  just  giving 
the  finishing  touches." 

"  Oh,  these  good  Provencaux  !  "  he  laughed. 
"  You  are  always  the  same,  determined  to  keep 
your  tattered  language,  like  the  donkeys  who  will 
walk  along  the  borders  of  the  roads  to  graze  upon 
thistles.  It  is  in  French,  my  dear  friend,  it  is  in 
the  language  of  Paris  that  we  must  sing  of  our 
Provence  to-day  if  we  wish  to  be  heard.  Now, 

listen  to  this  : 

• 

"  J'ai  revu  sur  mon  roc,  vieille,  nue,  appauvrie, 
La  maison  des  parents,  la  premiere  patrie, 
L'ombre  du  vieux  mtirier,  le  bane  de  pierre  etroit, 
Le  nid  de  1'hirondelle  avail  au  bord  du  toit, 
Et  la  treille,  a  present  sur  les  murs  egare'e, 
Qui  regrctte  son  maitre  et  retombe  e"ploree  ; 
Et  dans  1'herbe  et  1'oubli  qui  poussent  sur  le  se.uil, 
J'aijaitj>ieusement  agenouiller  1'orgueil, 


272  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

J'ai  rouvert  la  fenetre  ou  me  vint  la  lumiSre, 
Et  j'ai  rempli  de  chants  la  couche  de  ma  m£re  !  " 

"  But  come,  tell  me,  since  poem  there  is,  tell 
me  something  of  your  Provengal  production." 

I  then  read  him  something  out  of  Mireille,  I 
forget  what. 

"  Ah  !  if  you  are  going  to  talk  like  that,"  said 
Dumas  after  my  recitation,  "  I  take  off  my  hat 
and  greet  the  source  of  a  new  poetry,  of  an  indi- 
genous poetry  hitherto  unknown.  It  teaches  me, 
who  have  left  Provence  for  thirty  years,  and  who 
thought  her  language  dead,  that  behind  this 
dialect  used  by  the  common  people,  the  half- 
bourgeois  and  the  half-ladies,  there  exists  a  second 
language,  that  of  Dante  and  Petrarch.  But  take 
care  to  follow  their  methods,  which  did  not  consist, 
as  some  think,  in  using  the  language  as  they  found 
it,  or  in  making  a  mixture  of  the  dialects  of  Florence, 
Bologna  and  Milan.  They  collected  the  oil  and 
then  constructed  a  language  which  they  made 
perfect  while  generalising  it.  All  who  preceded 
the  Latin  writers  of  the  great  time  of  Augustus, 
with  the  exception  of  Terence,  were  but  trash. 
Of  the  popular  tongue,  use  only  a  few  white  straws 
with  the  grain  that  may  be  there.  I  feel  certain 
that  you  have  the  requisite  sap  running  in  your 
youthful  veins  to  ensure  success.  Already  I 


'MIREILLE"  273 

begin  to  see  the  possibility  of  the  rebirth  of  a 
language  founded  upon  Latin,  which  shall  be 
beautiful  and  sonorous  as  the  best  Italian." 

The  story  of  Adolphe  Dumas  was  like  a  fairy- 
tale. Born  of  the  people,  his  parents  kept  a 
little  inn  between  Orgon  and  Cabane.  Dumas 
had  a  sister  named  Laura,  beautiful  as  the  day 
and  innocent  as  a  spring  of  fresh  water.  One  day, 
lo  and  behold,  some  strolling  players  passed 
through  tne  village,  and  gave  in  the  evening  a 
performance  at  the  little  inn.  One  of  them  played 
the  part  of  a  prince.  The  gold  tinsel  of  his  cos- 
tume glittering  beneath  the  big  lanterns  gave  him, 
in  the  eyes  of  poor  little  Laura,  the  appearance 
of  a  king's  son.  Innocent,  alas  !  as  many  a  one 
before,  Laura  allowed  herself,  so  the  story  goes, 
to  be  beguiled  and  carried  off  by  this  prince  of 
the  open  road.  She  travelled  with  the  company 
and  embarked  at  Marseilles.  Too  soon  she  learnt 
her  mad  mistake,  and  not  daring  to  return  home, 
in  desperation  she  took  the  coach  for  Paris, 
where  she  arrived  one  morning  in  torrents  of 
rain.  There  she  found  herself  on  the  street, 
alone  and  destitute.  A  gentleman,  driving 
past,  noticed  the  young  Provencale  in  tears. 
Stopping  his  carriage  he  asked  her  :  "  My  pretty 


274  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

child,  what  is  the  matter — why  do  you  weep  so 
bitterly  ?  " 

In  her  naive  way  Laura  told  him  her  story. 
The  gentleman,  who  was  rich,  suddenly  touched 
and  taken  with  her  beauty  and  simplicity,  made 
her  get  into  his  carriage,  took  her  to  a  convent, 
had  her  carefully  educated,  and  then  married  her. 
But  the  beautiful  bride,  who  had  a  noble  heart, 
did  not  forget  her  own  relations.  She  sent  for 
her  little  brother  Adolphe  to  Paris,  and  gave 
him  a  good  education,  and  that  is  how  Adolphe 
Dumas,  a  poet  by  nature  and  an  enthusiast,  one 
day  found  himself  in  the  midst  of  the  literary 
movement  of  1830.  Verses  of  all  sorts,  dramas, 
comedies,  poems,  bubbled  forth  one  after  another 
from  his  seething  brain  :  "  La  Cite  des  Hommes," 
"La  Mort  de  Faust  et  de  Don  Juan,"  "Le 
Camp  des  Croises,"  "  Provence,"  "  Mademoiselle 
de  la  Valliere,"  "L'Ecole  des  Families,"  "Les 
Servitudes  Volontaires,"  &c.  But,  just  as  in  the 
army,  though  all  may  do  their  duty  every  one 
does  not  receive  the  Legion  of  Honour,  in  spite 
of  his  pluck  and  the  comparative  success  of  his 
plays  in  the  Paris  theatres,  the  poet  Dumas,  like 
our  drummer-boy  of  Arcole,  remained  always 
the  undecorated  soldier.  This  it  was,  no  doubt, 
which  made  him  say  later  on  in  Provengal : 


"MIREILLE"  275 

"  At  forty  years  and  more,  when  every  one  is 
angling,  still  I  dip  my  bread  in  the  poor  man's 
soup.  Let  us  be  content  if  we  have  a  soul 
at  peace,  a  pure  heart  and  clean  hands.  '  What 
has  he  earned  ?  '  the  world  will  ask,  '  He  carries 
his  head  erect.'  '  What  does  he  do  ?  '  'He  does 
his  duty.'  " 

But  if  Dumas  had  gained  no  special  laurels,  he 
had  won  the  esteem  of  the  most  distinguished 
brothers-in-arms,  and  Hugo,  Lamartine,  Beranger, 
De  Vigny,  the  great  Dumas,  Jules  Janin,  Mignet, 
Barbey  d'Aurevilly  were  among  his  friends. 

Adolphe  Dumas,  with  his  ardent  temperament, 
his  experience  of  struggling  days  in  Paris,  and  the 
memor}?-  of  his  childhood  on  the  Durance,  came 
to  the  determination  to  issue  a  passenger's  ticket 
to  Felibrige  between  Avignon  and  Paris. 

My  poem  of  Provence  was  at  last  finished, 
though  not  yet  printed,  when  one  day  my  friend 
Frederic  Legre,  a  young  Marseillais  who  formerly 
frequented  Font-Segugne,  said  to  me  : 

"  I  am  going  to  Paris — will  you  come  too  ?  " 

I  accepted  the  invitation,  and  it  was  thus  that 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  for  the  first  time,  1 
visited  Paris,  where  I  stayed  one  week.  I  had, 
needless  to  say,  brought  my  manuscript,  and 
after  spending  the  first  two  days  in  sight -seeing 


276          MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

and  admiring,  from  Notre-Dame  to  the  Louvre, 
and  from  the  Place  Vendome  to  the  great  Arc  de 
Triomphe,  we  went,  as  was  proper,  and  paid  our 
respects  to  the  good  Dumas. 

"  Well,  and  that  Mireille,"  he  asked  me,  "  is 
she  finished  ?  " 

"  She  is  finished,"  I  said,  "  and  here  she  is — in 
manuscript." 

"  Come  now,  since  you  are  here,  you  will  read 
me  a  song." 

And  when  I  had  read  the  first  canto,  "  Go 
on  !  "  said  Dumas. 

I  read  the  second,  then  the  third,  then  the 
fourth  canto. 

"  That  is  enough  for  to-day,"  said  the  good 
man.  "  Come  to-morrow  at  the  same  time,  we 
will  continue  the  reading ;  but  this  much  I  may 
assure  you,"  he  added,  "  if  your  work  keeps  up 
to  this  level,  you  may  win  finer  laurels  than  at 
present  you  have  any  idea  of." 

I  returned  the  next  day  and  read  four  more 
cantos,  and  the  day  after  we  finished  the  poem. 

That  same  day  (August  26,  1856)  Adolphe 
Dumas  wrote  to  the  editor  of  the  Gazette  de  France 
the  following  letter  : 

"  The  Gazette  du  Midi  has  already  made  known 
to  the  Gazette  de  France  the  arrival  in  Paris  of 


"MIREILLE"  277 

young  Mistral,  the  poet  of  Provence.  Who  is 
this  Mistral  ?  No  one  knows  anything  of  him. 
When  I  am  asked,!  answer  fearing  my  words  should 
find  no  credence,  so  surprising  will  be  my  state- 
ments at  a  time  when  the  prevalence  of  imitation 
poetry  makes  one  believe  that  all  true  poetry 
and  poets  are  dead.  In  ten  years'  time  the 
Academy  will,  when  all  the  world  has  already  done 
so,  recognise  another  glory  to  French  literature. 
The  clock  of  the  Institute  is  often  an  hour  behind 
the  century,  but  I  wish  to  be  the  first  to  discover 
one  who  may  be  truly  called  the  Virgil  of  Provence, 
and  who,  like  the  shepherd  of  Mantua,  sings  to 
his  countrymen  songs  worthy  of  Gallus  and  of 
Scipio.  Many  have  long  desired  for  our  beautiful 
country  of  the  south,  Roman  both  in  speech  and 
religion,  the  poem  which  shall  express  in  her  own 
tongue  the  sacred  beliefs  and  pure  customs  of  our 
land.  I  have  the  poem  in  my  hands,  it  consists  of 
twelve  songs.  It  is  signed  Frederic  Mistral,  of  the 
village  of  Maillane,  and  I  countersign  it  with  my 
word  of  honour,  which  I  have  never  given  falsely, 
and  with  the  full  weight  of  my  responsibility." 

This  letter  was  received  with  jeers  by  certain 
papers.  "  The  mistral  is  incarnated,  it  appears, 
in  a  poem.  We  shall  see  if  it  will  be  anything 
except  wind." 


278  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

But  Dumas,  content  with  the  effect  of  the  bomb, 
said,  clasping  my  hand  : 

"  Now,  my  dear  fellow,  return  to  Avignon  and 
get  your  Mireille  printed.  We  have  thrown 
down  the  glove,  now  let  the  critics  talk.  They 
must  each  one  have  their  say  in  turn." 

Before  I  left  Paris  my  devoted  compatriot 
wished  to  present  me  to  Lamartine,  his  friend,  and 
this  is  how  the  great  man  recounts  the  visit  in  his 
"  Cours  familier  de  Litterature "  (quarantieme 
entretien,  1859) : 

"  As  the  sun  was  setting,  Adolphe  Dumas 
entered  my  room,  followed  by  a  fine,  modest- 
looking  young  man,  dressed  with  a  sober  elegance 
which  recalled  the  lover  of  Laura,  when  he  brushed 
his  black  tunic  and  combed  his  smooth  hair  in  the 
city  of  Avignon.  It  was  Frederic  Mistral,  the  young 
village  poet,  destined  to  become  in  Provence, 
what  Burns  the  ploughman  was  in  Scotland,  the 
Homer  of  his  native  land. 

"His  expression  was  straightforward,  modest 
and  gentle,  with  nothing  in  it  of  that  proud  ten- 
sion of  the  features  or  of  that  vacancy  of  the  eye 
which  too  often  characterises  those  men  of  vanity 
rather  than  genius,  styled  popular  poets.  He 
had  the  comeliness  of  sincerity,  he  pleased,  he 
interested,  he  touched;  one  recognised  in  his 


"MIREILLE"  279 

masculine  beauty  the  son  of  one  of  those  beautiful 
Arlesiennes,  living  statues  of  Greece,  who  still 
move  in  our  south. 

"Mistral  sat  down  without  ceremony  at  my 
dinner-table  in  Paris,  according  to  the  laws  of 
ancient  hospitality,  as  I  would  have  seated  myself 
at  the  farm  table  of  his  mother  at  Maillane.  The 
dinner  was  quiet,  the  conversation  intimate 
and  frank.  The  evening  passed  quickly  and 
pleasantly  in  my  little  garden  about  the  size  of 
the  kerchief  of  Mireille,  to  the  song  of  blackbirds 
in  the  fresh  cool  night  air. 

"  The  young  man  recited  some  verses  in  the  sweet 
nervous  idiom  of  Provence,  which  combines  the 
Latin  pronunciation  with  the  grace  of  Attica  and 
the  serenity  of  Tuscany.  My  knowledge  of  the 
Latin  dialects,  which  I  spoke  up  to  the  age  of 
twelve  in  the  mountains  of  my  country,  made 
these  fine  idioms  intelligible  to  me.  The  verses  of 
Mistral  were  liquid  and  melodious,  they  pleased 
without  intoxicating  me.  The  genius  of  the  young 
man  was  not  there,  the  medium  was  too  restricted 
for  his  soul ;  he  needed,  as  did  Jasmin,  that  other 
singer  of  indigenous  growth,  his  epic  poem  in 
which  to  spread  his  wings.  He  returned  to  his 
village,  there  at  his  mother's  hearth  and  beside 
the  flocks  to  find  his  last  inspirations.  On  taking 


28o  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

leave,  he  promised  to  send  me  the  first  printed 
copy  of  his  Mireille." 

After  this  memorable  occasion  I  paid  my  fare- 
well respects  to  Lamartine.  He  lived  at  that  time 
on  the  ground  floor  in  the  Rue  dela  Ville-l'Eveque. 
It  was  evening.  Burdened  with  his  debts  and 
somewhat  forsaken,  the  great  man  drowsed  on  a 
sofa,  smoking  a  cigar,  while  some  visitors  spoke  in 
low  voices  around  him. 

All  at  once  a  servant  came  to  announce  that  a 
Spaniard,  a  harpist  called  Herrera,  asked  permis- 
sion to  play  some  of  the  music  of  his  country 
before  Monsieur  de  Lamartine. 

"  Let  him  come  in,"  said  the  poet. 

When  the  harpist  had  played  his  tunes,  Lamar- 
tine, in  a  whisper  to  his  niece,  Madame  de  Cessia, 
asked  if  there  was  any  money  in  the  drawers  of 
his  bureau. 

"  There  are  still  two  louis,"  she  replied. 

"  Give  them  to  Herrera,"  said  the  kind-hearted 
Lamartine. 

I  returned  to  Provence  to  get  my  poem  printed, 
and  so  soon  as  it  issued  from  the  printing  office  of 
Seguin  at  Avignon,  I  directed  the  first  proof  to 
Lamartine,  who  wrote  to  Reboul  *  the  following 
letter  : 

*  A  well-known  poet  and  writer  of  Nimes,  author  of  a  small 
poem  regarded  as  a  classic  in  France  :  "  L'Ange  et  1'Enfant." 


'MIREILLE"  281 

"  I  have  read  Mireio.  Nothing  until  now  has 
appeared  of  such  national,  vital,  inimitable  growth 
of  the  South.  There  is  a  virtue  in  the  sun  of  Pro- 
vence. I  have  received  such  a  thrust  both  in 
the  spirit  and  the  heart  that  I  was  impelled  to 
write  a  discourse  on  the  poem.  Tell  this  to  Mon- 
sieur Mistral.  Since  the  Homerics  of  Archipel, 
no  such  spring  of  primitive  poetry  has  gushed 
forth.  I  cried,  even  as  you  did,  '  It  is  Homer  ! '  " 

Adolphe  Dumas  wrote  me  : 

March,  1859. 

"  Another  joyful  letter  for  you,  my  dear  friend. 
I  went,  last  evening,  to  Lamartine.  On  seeing  me 
enter,  he  received  me  with  exclamations  of  enthu- 
siasm, using  much  the  same  expressions  as  I  did 
in  my  letter  to  the  Gazette  de  France.  He  has  read 
and  understood,  he  says,  your  poem  from  one  end 
to  the  other.  He  read  it  and  re-read  it  three  times ; 
he  cannot  leave  it,  and  reads  nothing  else.  His 
niece,  that  beautiful  person  whom  you  saw,  added 
that  she  has  been  unable  to  steal  it  from  him  for 
one  instant  to  read  it  herself,  and  he  is  going  to 
devote  an  entire  lecture  to  you  and  Mireio.  He 
asked  me  for  biographical  notes  on  you  and  on 
Maillane.  I  sent  them  to  him  this  morning.  You 
were  the  subject  of  general  conversation  all  the 
evening,  and  your  poem  was  rehearsed  by  Lamar- 


282  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

tine  and  by  me  from  the  first  word  to  the  last. 
If  this  lecture  speaks  thus  of  you,  your  fame  is 
assured  throughout  the  world.  He  says  you  are 
'  A  Greek  of  the  Cyclades.'  He  has  written  of  you 
to  Reboul,  '  He  is  a  Homer.'  He  charges  me  to 
write  you  all  that  I  will,  and  he  added  I  cannot  say 
too  much,  he  is  so  entirely  delighted.  So  be  very 
happy,  you  and  your  dear  mother,  of  whom  I 
retain  a  charming  remembrance." 

I  wish  to  record  here  a  very  singular  fact  of 
maternal  intuition.  I  had  given  to  my  mother 
a  copy  of  MirZio,  but  without  having  spoken  to  her 
of  Lamartine's  opinion,  of  which  I  was  still  igno- 
rant. At  the  end  of  the  day,  when  I  thought  she 
had  made  acquaintance  with  the  work,  I  asked  her 
what  she  thought  of  it,  and  she  answered  me, 
deeply  moved  : 

"  A  very  strange  thing  happened  to  me  when  I 
opened  thy  book  :  a  flash  of  light,  like  a  star, 
dazzled  me  suddenly,  and  I  was  obliged  to  delay 
the  reading  until  later  !  " 

One  may  believe  it  or  no,  but  I  have  always 
thought  that  this  vision  of  my  beloved  and 
sainted  mother  was  a  very  real  sign  of  the  influence 
of  Sainte-Estelle,  otherwise  of  the  star  that  had 
presided  at  the  foundation  of  Felibrige. 


"MIREILLE"  283 

The  fortieth  discourse  of  the  "  Cours  familier 
de  Litterature  "  appeared  a  month  later  (1859) 
under  the  title  of  "  The  Appearance  of  an  Epic 
Poem  in  Provence."  Lamartine  devoted  eighty 
pages  to  the  poem  of  Mireille,  and  this  glorification 
was  the  crowning  event  of  the  numberless  articles 
which  had  welcomed  the  rustic  epic  in  the  press  of 
Provence,  of  Languedoc,  and  of  Paris.  I  testified 
my  gratitude  in  the  Provencal  quatrain,  which  I 
inscribed  at  the  head  of  the  second  edition. 

TO  LAMARTINE. 

To  thee  alone  Mireille  I  dedicate ; 

My  heart,  my  soul,  my  flower,  the  best  of  me, 
A  bunch  of  Crau's  sweet  grapes  and  leaves,  that  late 
A  peasant  offers  thee. 

September  8,  1859. 

And  the  following  is  the  elegy  that  I  published  on 
the  death  of  the  great  man,  ten  years  later  (1869). 

ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LAMARTINE.* 

When  the  day-star  draws  near  to  the  hour  of  his  setting, 
When  dusk  clothes  the  hills,  and  the  shepherds  are  letting 
Their  sheep  and  their  herds  and  their  dogs  go  free, 
Then  up  from  the  marshlands,  all  groaning  together, 
Come  the  wails  of  the  toilers  through  sweltering  weather  : 
"  That  sunshine  was  nearly  the  death  of  me  !  " 

*  For  Proven9al  text  see 


284  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

Thou,  of  God's  holy  words  the  magnanimous  preacher, 
Even  so,  Lamartine,  O  my  father,  my  teacher, 
When  by  song,  and  by  deed,  and  consoling  tear, 
Thou  did'st  lavish  thy  love  and  thy  light  unsparing, 
Till  the  world  had  its  fill,  and  the  world,  not  caring, 
Grew  weary  and  sated,  and  would  not  hear  : 

Then  each  one  his  taunt  through  the  mist  must  needs  fling 

thee, 

And  each  one  a  stone  from  his  armoury  sling  thee  : 
Thy  splendour  but  hurt  us,  and  tired  our  sight ; 
For  a  star  that  grows  dim  and  no  longer  can  light  them, 
And  a  crucified  god — these  will  ever  delight  them, 
The  ignorant  crowd — and  the  toads  love  night. 

Oh,  then  were  there  seen  things  prodigious,  by  Heaven  ! 

Fresh  youth  to  the  soul  of  the  world  had  he  given, 

He,  of  purest  poesy  mighty  source  ; 

Yet  the  new  young  rhymesters  were  moved  to  laughter 

O'er  his  sadness  prophetic,  and  said  thereafter 

"  That  he  knew  not  the  poet's  art,  of  course  !  " 

High-Priest  of  the  great  Adona'i,  he  raises 
The  soul  of  our  creeds  by  the  heavenly  praises 
He  hymns  on  the  strings  of  Sion's  golden  harp  ! 
Yet,  calling  to  witness  the  Scriptures  proudly, 
"  A  man  irreligious  "  they  dub  him  loudly, 
The  Pharisee  bigots  who  mouth  and  carp. 

He,  the  great,  tender  heart  who  has  sung  the  disaster 

Of  our  monarchs  ancestral,  and  he,  the  master 

Who  with  pomp  of  marble  has  built  their  tomb, 

On  him  all  the  gapers  who  vow  adoration 

To  the  Royalist  cause,  have  pronounced  condemnation ; 

They  call  him  insurgent — and  give  him  room. 


"MIREILLE"  285 

He,  the  voice  apostolic,  while  all  men  wondered, 

The  great  word  "  Republic  "  hath  hurled  and  thundered 

Across  the  world's  skies,  till  the  peoples  thrilled  ! 

Yet  him,  by  a  frenzy  unspeakable  smitten, 

Have  all  the  mad  dogs  of  Democracy  bitten, 

And  growled  at  him,  snarled  at  him  as  they  willed  ! 

To  the  crater  of  fire,  he,  great  patriot,  had  given 
Wealth,  body  and  soul,  and  his  country  had  striven 
To  save  from  the  burning  volcano's  flame  ; 
Yet  when,  poor,  he  was  begging  his  bread,  all  denied  him, 
The  bigwigs  and  burghers  as  spendthrift  decried  him, 
And,  shut  up  in  ease,  to  their  boroughs  came. 

When  he  saw  himself  then  in  disaster  forsaken — 
With  his  cross,  and  by  anguish  and  suffering  shaken, 
Alone  he  ascended  his  Calvary  ; 

And  at  dusk  some  good  souls  heard  a  long,  long  sighing, 
And  then,  through  the  spaces,  this  cry  undying 
Rang  out :   "  Eloi,  lama  sabachthani." 

But  none  dared  draw  nigh  to  that  hill-top  lonely, 
So  he  waited  in  patience  and  silence  only, 
With  his  deep  eyes  closed  and  his  hands  spread  wide  ; 
Till,  calm  as  the  mountains  at  heaven's  high  portal, 
Amidst  his  ill-fortune,  and  fame  immortal, 
Without  ever  speaking  a  word,  he  died. 

(Trans.  Alma  Strettell.) 


CHAPTER  XVII 
THE  REVELS  OF  TRINQUETAILLE 

(A   REMINISCENCE  OF  ALPHONSE  DAUDET) 

ALPHONSE  DAUDET,  writing  of  his  youth  in  the 
"  Lettres  de  mon  Moulin"  and  "Trente  Ans  de 
Paris/*  has  told  with  the  finest  bloom  of  his  pen 
some  of  the  pranks  he  played  with  the  early 
Felibres  at  Maillane,  Barthelasse,  Baux,  and 
Chateauneuf — that  first  crop  of  Felibres  who  in 
those  days  ran  about  the  country  of  Provence  for 
the  fun  of  running,  to  keep  themselves  going,  and 
above  all  to  stir  up  again  in  the  hearts  of  the  people 
the  Gai-Savoir  of  the  Troubadours.  There  is, 
however,  one  joyous  day  of  adventure  we  spent 
together  some  forty  years  ago,  of  which  Daudet 
has  not  told. 

Alphonse  Daudet  was  at  that  time  secretary  to 
the  Due  de  Morny,  honorary  secretary  be  it  under- 
stood, for  the  utmost  that  the  young  man  ever  did 
was  to  go  once  a  month  to  see  if  his  patron,  the 
President  of  the  Senate,  was  flourishing  and  in  a 
good  temper.  Amongst  other  exquisite  things 
from  his  pen,  Daudet  had  written  a  love-poem 


REVELS   OF   TRINQUETAILLE     287 

called  "  Les  Prunes."  All  Paris  knew  it  by  heart, 
and  Monsieur  de  Morny,  hearing  it  recited  one 
evening  in  a  drawing-room,  requested  the  author 
might  be  presented  to  him,  with  the  result  that 
he  took  the  young  man  under  his  patronage. 
To  say  nothing  of  his  wit,  which  flashed  like  a 
diamond,  Daudet  was  a  handsome  fellow,  brown, 
with  a  clear  skin  and  black  eyes  with  long  lashes, 
a  budding  beard  and  thick  crop  of  hair  which  he 
allowed  to  grow  so  long  that  the  Duke,  every  time 
the  author  of  "  Les  Prunes  "  called  on  him  at  the 
Senate,  would  repeat,  with  disapproving  finger 
pointing  at  the  offending  locks  : 

"  Well  poet — and  when  are  we  going  to  cut  off 
this  wig  ?  " 

"  Next  week,  Monseigneur,"  the  poet  invariably 
replied. 

About  once  a  month  the  great  Due  de  Morny 
made  the  same  observation  to  the  little  Daudet, 
and  every  time  the  poet  made  the  same  answer. 
But  the  Duke  himself  was  more  likely  to  fall  than 
Daudet's  mane. 

At  that  age  the  future  chronicler  of  the  prodigious 
adventures  of  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  was  a  merry 
youth,  who  kept  pace  with  the  wind,  impatient 
to  know  everything,  an  audacious  Bohemian, 
frank  and  free  with  his  tongue,  throwing  himself 


288  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

headlong  in  the  swim  of  life  with  laughter  and 
noise,  always  on  the  look-out  for  adventures.  He 
had  quicksilver  in  his  veins. 

I  remember  one  evening,  when  we  were  supping 
at  the  Chene-Vert,  a  pleasant  inn  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Avignon,  hearing  music  for  a  dance  that 
was  going  on  just  below  the  terrace  where  we  were 
dining.  Daudet  suddenly  jumped  down,  a  flying 
leap  of  some  nine  or  ten  feet,  crashing  through  the 
branches  of  a  vine  trellis  and  landing  in  the  midst 
of  the  dancers,  who  took  him  for  a  devil. 

Another  time,  from  the  height  of  the  road  which 
passes  at  the  foot  of  the  Pont  du  Gard,  he  threw 
himself,  without  knowing  how  to  swim,  into  the 
River  Garden,  to  see,  so  he  said,  if  the  water  was 
deep.  Had  not  a  fisherman  caught  hold  of  him 
with  his  boathook,  my  poor  Alphonse  would 
most  certainly  have  drunk  what  we  call  "  the  soup 
of  eleven  o'clock !  " 

Another  time,  on  the  bridge  that  leads  from 
Avignon  to  the  island  of  Barthelasse,  he  madly 
climbed  on  the  narrow  parapet,  and  racing  along 
at  the  risk  of  tumbling  over  into  the  Rhone,  he 
cried  out,  for  the  edification  of  some  country 
people  who  heard  him  :  "  It  is  from  here,  by 
thunder  !  that  we  threw  the  corpse  of  Brune  into 
the  Rhone,  yes,  the  Marechal  Brune  !  And  may 


REVELS   OF   TRINQUETAILLE     289 

it  serve  as  an  example  to  those  northerners  and 
barbarians  if  ever  they  return  to  annoy  us  !  " 

One  day  in  September,  at  Maillane,  I  received 
a  little  note  from  friend  Daudet,  one  of  those 
notes  minute  as  a  parsley  leaf,  well  known  to  all 
his  friends,  in  which  he  said  to  me : 

"  MY  FREDERIC, — To-morrow,  Wednesday,  I 
leave  Fontvieille  to  come  and  meet  thee  at  Saint- 
Gabriel.  Mathieu  and  Grivolas  will  join  us  by  the 
road  from  Tarascon.  The  place  of  meeting  is  the 
ale-house,  where  we  shall  await  thee  about  nine 
o'clock  or  half-past.  And  there,  at  Sarrasine's, 
the  lovely  landlady  of  the  place,  having  drunk  a 
glass,  we  will  set  out  on  foot  for  Aries.  Do  not  fail. 

"Thy         RED  HOOD." 

On  the  day  mentioned,  between  eight  and  nine 
o'clock,  we  all  found  ourselves  at  Saint-Gabriel, 
at  the  foot  of  the  chapel  which  guards  the  moun- 
tain. At  Sarrasine's,  we  drank  a  cherry  brandy, 
and  then — forward  on  the  white  road. 

We  inquired  of  a  roadmender  how  far  it  was 
to  Aries. 

'  When  you  get  to  the  tomb  of  Roland,"  he 
answered,  "  you  will  still  have  two  hours'  walk." 

We  inquired  where  was  the  tomb  of  Roland. 


290  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

"  Down  there  where  you  see  a  group  of  cypresses 
on  the  banks  of  the  Viqueirat." 

"  And  this  Roland,  who  was  he  ?  " 

"  He  was,  so  they  say,  a  famous  captain  of  the 
time  of  the  Saracens.  .  .  .  His  teeth,  I  will 
wager,  no  longer  hurt  him." 

Greetings  to  thee,  Roland !  We  never  ex- 
pected, when  we  set  out,  to  find  still  living,  in 
the  fields  and  meadows  of  Trebon,  the  legendary 
glory  of  the  Companion  of  Charlemagne.  But 
to  continue.  Just  as  the  Man  of  Bronze  struck 
twelve,  gaily  we  descended  upon  Aries,  entering 
by  the  Porte  de  la  Cavalerie,  all  of  us  white 
with  dust.  As  we  had  the  appetite  of  Spaniards 
we  went  at  once  to  breakfast  at  the  Hotel 
Pinus. 

We  were  not  badly  served;  and  when  one  is 
young,  making  merry  with  friends  and  rejoicing 
to  be  alive,  there  is  nothing  like  dining  together 
for  engendering  high  spirits. 

There  was  one  thing,  however,  which  disturbed 
our  equanimity.  A  waiter  in  a  black  coat,  with 
pomaded  head,  and  whiskers  standing  out  like 
birch  brooms,  hovered  perpetually  around  us,  a 
napkin  under  his  arm,  never  taking  his  eyes  off  us, 
and  under  pretext  of  changing  our  plates,  listening 
eagerly  to  all  our  foolish  talk. 


REVELS    OF    TRINQUETAILLE     291 

"  We  must  get  rid  of  him.  Here,  waiter !  "  said 
Daudet. 

The  limpet  approached.     "  Yes,  sir  ?  " 

"  Quick,  fetch  me  a  dish — a  large  silver  dish." 

'  To  place  upon  it  ?  "  inquired  the  waiter, 
puzzled. 

"  A  jackanapes,"  replied  Daudet  in  a  voice  of 
thunder. 

The  changer  of  plates  did  not  wait  for  any  more, 
and  from  that  moment  left  us  in  peace. 

"  What  I  dislike  about  these  hotels,"  said 
Mathieu,  "  is  that  since  the  commercial  traveller 
introduced  the  northern  fashions,  whether  at 
Avignon,  Augouleme,  Draguignan,  or  even  at 
Brier-la-Gaillarde,  they  now  all  give  you  the  same 
insipid  dishes — carrot  broth,  veal  and  sorrel,  roast 
beef  half  cooked,  cauliflower  with  butter,  and  a 
variety  of  eatables  with  neither  taste  nor  savour. 
In  Provence,  if  you  want  to  find  the  old-fashioned 
cooking  of  the  country  which  was  appetising  and 
savoury,  you  must  go  to  the  little  inn  frequented 
by  the  country  people." 

"  What  if  we  go  this  evening,"  cried  Grivolas 
the  painter. 

"  Let  us  go,"  we  all  agreed. 

We  paid  without  further  delay,  lighted  our 
cigars  and  sallied  forth  to  take  our  cup  of  coffee  in 


292  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

a  popular  cafe,  and  then  in  the  narrow  streets,  cool, 
and  white  with  limestone,  flanked  by  stately  old 
houses  on  either  side,  we  strolled  about  till  the  twi- 
light fell,  looking  at  the  queenly  Arlesienne  beauties 
on  their  doorsteps  or  behind  the  transparent  window 
curtains,  for  I  must  own  they  had  counted  consider- 
ably as  a  latent  motive  in  our  descent  upon  Aries. 

We  passed  the  Arena,  its  great  gates  wide  open, 
and  the  Roman  theatre  with  its  two  majestic 
columns.  We  visited  Saint-Trophime  and  the 
cloisters,  the  famous  Head  without  a  Nose,  the 
Palaces  of  the  Lion,  of  the  Porcelets,  of  Constan- 
tine,  and  of  the  Grand  Prior. 

Sometimes  on  the  narrow  pavement  we  ran  up 
against  a  donkey  belonging  to  some  water-carrier 
selling  water  from  the  Rhone  in  barrels.  We  also 
encountered  troops  of  sunburnt  gleaners,  newly  re- 
turned from  the  country,  carrying  on  their  heads  the 
heavy  load  of  gleanings,  and  beside  these  the  vendors 
of  snails,  shouting  at  the  pitch  of  their  voices : 

"  Who  will  buy  fresh  snails  from  the  fields  !  " 

About  sunset  we  inquired  of  a  woman,  who  stood 
just  outside  the  fish-market  knitting  a  stocking,  if 
she  could  direct  us  to  some  little  inn  or  tavern, 
unpretentious,  but  clean,  where  we  could  dine  in 
simple  apostolic  fashion. 

The  woman,  thinking  we  were  joking,  cried  out 


REVELS   OF  TRINQUETAILLE     293 

to  her  neighbours,  who,  at  her  shout  of  laughter, 
came  to  their  doors  coifed  with  the  coquettish 
headgear  of  Aries. 

"See,  here  are  some  gentlemen  looking  for  a 
tavern  at  which  to  sup — do  you  know  of  one  ?  " 

"  Send  them,"  cried  one,  "  to  the  Rue  Pique- 
Monte." 

"  Or  to  the  '  Little  Cat/  "  said  another. 

"  Or  to  the  '  Widow  Come  Here.'  " 

"  Or  to  the  Gate  of  the  Chestnuts." 

"  Don't  mock  us,  my  dears,"  said  I.  "  We  want 
some  quiet  little  place  within  the  reach  of  any- 
body, where  honest  people  go." 

"  Very  well,"  said  a  fat  man  seated  on  a  post, 
smoking  his  pipe,  with  a  face  coloured  like  a 
beggar's  gourd,  "  why  not  go  to  Counenc's  ?  See 
here,  gentlemen,  I  will  conduct  you,"  he  continued, 
rising  and  shaking  out  his  pipe ;  "  I  have  to  go  by 
that  way.  It  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  Rhone, 
in  the  suburb  of  Trinquetaille.  It  is  not  an  hotel 
of  the  first  order,  my  faith,  but  the  watermen, 
the  bargees  and  the  boatmen  who  come  from 
Condrieu,  feed  there  and  are  not  discontented. 
The  owner  is  from  Combs,  a  village  near  Beaucaire, 
which  supplies  some  bargemen.  I  myself,  who 
have  the  honour  of  addressing  you,  am  master 
of  a  boat,  and  I  have  done  my  share  of  sailing." 


294  MEMOIRS   OF  MISTRAL 

We  inquired  if  he  had  been  far  afield. 

"  Oh  no/'  he  replied,  "  I  have  only  sailed  in  the 
small  coasting  trade  as  far  as  Havre-de-Grace, 
but  it  is  a  true  saying  that  there  is  never  a  boatman 
who  does  not  face  danger — and  for  sure,  had  it 
not  been  for  the  Great  Saintes-Maries,  who  have 
always  protected  me,  there  are  many  times,  my 
friends,  when  we  should  have  gone  under." 

"  And  they  call  you  ?  " 

"  Master  Gafet !  Always  at  your  service  should 
you  at  any  time  run  down  to  Sambuc  or  to  Graz 
to  see  the  vessels  embedded  in  the  sand  at  the 
river's  mouth." 

So,  chatting  pleasantly,  we  arrived  at  the  bridge 
of  Trinquetaille,  at  that  time  still  a  bridge  of  boats. 
As  we  passed  over  the  moving  planks  which  con- 
nected the  chain  of  boats  one  felt  beneath  the 
heaving  river,  powerful  and  living,  on  whose 
mighty  bosom  one  rose  and  sank  as  it  drew  breath. 
Having  crossed  the  Rhone,  we  turned  to  the  left 
on  the  quay,  and  there,  beneath  an  old  trellis, 
bending  over  the  trough  of  the  well,  we  saw — how 
shall  I  describe  her  ? — a  kind  of  witch,  and  one- 
eyed  to  boot,  scraping  and  opening  some  lively 
eels.  At  her  feet  some  cats  were  gnawing  and 
fighting  as  she  threw  the  heads  down  to 
them. 


REVELS   OF   TRINQUETAILLE     295 

'  That  is  '  La  Counenque,'  "  announced  Master 
Gafet. 

It  was  somewhat  of  a  shock  to  poets  who, 
since  early  morn,  had  dreamed  but  of  beautiful 
and  noble  Arlesiennes.  But — here  we  were  ! 

"  Counenque,  these  gentlemen  wish  to  sup 
here,"  said  our  guide. 

"  Are  you  daft  then,  Master  Gafet  ?  What 
the  devil  are  you  trying  to  saddle  us  with  !  You 
know  I  have  nothing  to  set  before  that  sort." 

"  See  here,  old  idiot,  hast  not  there  a  fine  dish 
of  eels  ?  " 

"  Oh,  if  a  hash  of  eels  will  make  them  happy  ! 
But  mind  you,  we  have  nothing  else."  I 

"  Ho  !  "  cried  Daudet,  "  nothing  we  like  better 
than  a  hash.  Come  in — come  in,  and  you,  Master 
Gafet,  please  sit  down  with  us." 

Our  friend  Gafet  willingly  allowed  himself  to 
be  persuaded,  and  we  all  five  entered  the  tavern 
of  Trinquetaille. 

In  a  low  room,  the  floor  of  which  was  covered 
with  beaten  clay,  but  the  walls  were  very  white, 
stood  a  long  table  whereat  were  seated  from  fifteen 
to  twenty  bargemen  in  the  act  of  cutting  a  kid, 
the  landlord  Counenc  supping  with  them. 

From  the  beams  of  the  ceiling,  blackened  by 


296  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

smoke,  hung  flycatchers  in  the  shape  of  tamarinds, 
where  the  flies  settled  and  were  afterwards  caught 
in  a  bag.  We  sat  down  on  benches  at  another 
table,  opposite  the  bargemen,  who,  on  seeing  us, 
became  silent. 

While  the  hash  was  preparing  on  the  stove, 
"  La  Counenque,"  to  give  us  an  appetite,  brought 
some  enormous  onions,  those  grown  at  Bellegarde, 
a  dish  of  Jamaica  pepper  in  vinegar,  some  fer- 
mented cheese,  preserved  olives,  botargo  of 
Martinique,  and  slices  of  braised  haddock. 

"  And  thou  who  saidst  there  was  nothing  to 
eat !  "  cried  Master  Gafet,  cutting  the  bread  with 
his  big  hooked  knife  ;  "  but  it  is  a  wedding  feast !" 

"  By  our  Lady,"  answered  the  one-eyed,  "  if 
you  had  let  us  know  beforehand,  we  might  have 
prepared  you  a  blanquette  a  la  mode  —  or  an 
omelette — but  when  people  drop  down  on  you  in 
the  twilight  like  a  hair  in  the  soup,  you  understand, 
gentlemen,  one  has  to  give  them  what  one  can." 

Daudet,  who  in  his  whole  life  had  never  before 
seen  such  specimens  of  the  Camargue,  seized  one  of 
the  onions — fine  flat  onions,  golden  as  a  Christmas 
loaf — and  boldly  crunched  and  swallowed  it,  leaf 
by  leaf,  with  his  fine  strong  teeth,  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  some  fermented  cheese  and  haddock. 
It  is  only  fair  to  mention  we  also  did  our  best  to 


REVELS   OF   TRINQUETAILLE     297 

help  him,  while  Master  Gaf  et,  raising  every  now  and 
again  the  brimming  jug  of  Crau  wine,  his  face 
ablaze  as  I  never  saw  the  like. 

"  Oh  these  young  bloods  !  "  said  he,  "  the  onion 
makes  one  drink  and  keeps  up  the  thirst." 

In  less  than  half  an  hour  one  could  have  lighted 
a  match  on  any  one  of  our  cheeks.  Then  the  hash 
(catigot)  arrived,  a  dish  in  which  a  shepherd's 
crook  could  have  stood  upright,  salted  like  the 
sea,  and  peppered  like  the  devil. 

"  Salting  and  peppering  make  one  find  the 
wine  very  good,"  said  the  fat  Gafet ;  "let  us 
clink  glasses,  my  boys." 

The  bargemen  meantime,  having  finished  their 
kid,  ended  their  repast,  as  is  the  custom  of  the 
watermen  of  Condrieu,  with  a  plate  of  fat  soup. 
Each  one  poured  a  big  glass  of  wine  into  his  plate, 
then,  lifting  it  with  both  hands,  all  together  they 
drank  off  the  mixture  at  one  gulp,  smacking  their 
lips  with  pleasure.  The  master  of  a  raft,  who 
wore  his  beard  like  a  collar,  then  sang  a  song  which, 
if  I  remember,  finished  like  this  : 

When  our  fleet  arrives 
On  the  way  to  Toulon, 
We  salute  the  town 
With  a  roll  of  cannon. 

"  Thunder  !  but  we  must  give  them  one  back," 


298  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

cried  Daudet.  And  he  burst  out  with  a  chorus 
which  referred  to  the  time  of  the  Civil  War  with 
the  Vaulois  : 

To  Lourmarin — Light-horseman 

There  they  die  ! 
To  Lourmarin — Light-horseman 

Quickly  fly !  &c. 

Then  the  men  of  the  river,  not  to  be  outdone, 
responded  with  a  chorus  : 

The  maidens  of  Valence 

Know  naught  of  love's  sweet  way, 

But  those  of  fair  Provence 
Enjoy  it  night  and  day. 

"  Together  now,  boys,"  we  cried  to  the  singers. 
And  in  unison,  making  castanets  of  our  fingers, 
we  shouted  with  such  full  lungs  that  the  one-eyed 
interrupted  us  : 

"  Shut  up,"  said  she,  "  if  the  police  pass  by  they 
will  have  you  up  for  brawling  at  nights." 

'  The  police,"  we  cried  ;  "we  snap  our  fingers 
at  them.  "  Here,"  added  Daudet,  "  go  and  fetch 
the  visitors'  book." 

The  "  Counenque  "  brought  the  book  in  which 
all  who  passed  the  night  at  the  inn  inscribed  their 
names,  and  the  polite  secretary  of  Monsieur  de 
Morny  wrote  in  his  best  hand  : 


REVELS   OF   TRINOUETAILLE     299 

A.  Daudet,  Secretary  of  the  President  of  the  Senate. 

F.  Mistral,  Chevalier  of  the  Legion  of  Honour. 

A.  Mathieu,  Felibre  of  Chateauneuf-du-Pape. 

P.  Grivolas,  Master  painter  of  the  School  of  Avignon. 

"  And  if  any  one,"  he  continued,  "  if  any  one, 
O  Counenque,  should  ever  dare  make  trouble, 
be  he  commissioner,  policeman  or  sub-prefect, 
thou  hast  only  to  place  these  inky  spider's  legs 
under  his  moustache.  If  after  that  he  is  not 
quieted,  write  to  me  in  Paris  and  I  wager  I  will 
make  him  dance." 

We  settled  our  bill,  and  accompanied  by  the 
admiring  glances  of  all,  we  left  with  the  air  of 
princes  who  had  just  revealed  their  identity. 
Arrived  at  the  footpath  of  the  bridge  of  Trinque- 
taille  : 

"  What  if  we  danced  a  bit  of  a  farandole  ?  " 
proposed  the  indefatigable  and  charming  novelist 
of  the  "  Mule  du  Pape."  "  The  bridges  of  Pro- 
vence are  only  made  for  that." 

So  forward.  In  the  clear,  limpid  light  of  the 
September  moon,  which  was  reflected  in  the  water, 
behold  us  stepping  gaily  and  singing  on  the  bridge. 

About  midway  across  we  saw  advancing  a 
procession  of  Arlesiennes,  of  delicious  Arlesiennes, 
each  one  with  her  cavalier,  walking  and  bowing, 
laughing  and  talking.  The  rustling  of  petticoats, 


300  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

the  frou-frou  of  silk,  the  soft  murmurs  of  the  happy 
couples  as  they  spoke  together  in  the  peaceful 
night  with  the  thrill  of  the  Rhone  that  glided 
between  the  boats,  was  an  emotional  experience 
never  to  be  forgotten. 

"  A  wedding  !  "  cried  the  fat  Gafet,  who  had 
not  yet  left  us. 

"  A  wedding,"  echoed  Daudet,  who,  with  his 
short  sight,  only  just  perceived  the  advancing 
party.  "  An  Arlesienne  wedding !  A  moonlight 
wedding !  A  wedding  in  the  middle  of  the 
Rhone !  " 

And  taken  with  a  sudden  mad  impulse,  our 
buck  sprang  forward,  threw  himself  on  the  neck 
of  the  bride,  and  kissed  her  with  a  will. 

Then  followed  a  pretty  row  !  We  were  all  in 
for  it,  and  if  ever  we  were  hard  put  to  it  in  our  lives, 
it  was  certainly  on  that  occasion.  Twenty  fellows 
with  raised  sticks  surrounded  us  : 

"  To  the  Rhone  with  the  rascals  !  " 

"  What  is  it  all  about  ?  "  cried  Master  Gafet, 
pushing  back  the  crowd.  "  Can't  you  see  we  have 
been  drinking  ?  Drinking  to  the  health  of  the 
bride  in  the  Trinquetaille,  and  that  to  commence 
drinking  again  would  do  us  harm  ?  " 

"  Long  live  the  bridal  couple !  "  we  all  exclaimed. 
And  thanks  to  the  valiant  Gafet,  whom  every  one 


REVELS   OF   TRINQUETAILLE     301 

knew,  and  to  his  presence  of  mind,  the  thing 
ended  there. 

The  next  question  was  where  to  go  next  ?  The 
Man  of  Bronze  had  just  struck  eleven  o'clock. 
We  decided  to  make  the  tour  of  the  Aliscamps.* 

Passing  down  the  Lice  d' Aries  we  went  the 
round  of  the  ramparts,  and  by  the  light  of  the  moon 
descended  the  avenue  of  poplars  leading  to  the 
cemetery  of  the  old  Aries  of  the  Romans.  And 
while  wandering  amongst  the  tombs  and  sarco- 
phagi, showing  white  on  either  side  in  long  rows, 
we  solemnly  chaunted  the  fine  ballad  by  Camille 
Reybaud  : 

The  poplars  growing  in  the  churchyard  here 

Salute  the  dead  that  in  these  graves  abide — 
If  thou  the  sacred  mysteries  dost  fear 
Oh  never  pass  the  churchyard  by  so  near  ! 

The  long,  white  grave-stones  in  the  churchyard  here 

Have  flung  their  heavy  covers  open  wide. 
If  thou  the  sacred  mysteries,  &c.  &c. 

*  Les  Aliscamps,  the  famous  burying-ground  of  the 
Romans.  In  the  old  pagan  days  it  was  said  that  this  wonderful 
necropolis  made  Aries,  the  queen  of  cities,  more  opulent 
beneath  her  soil  than  above.  Here  the  great  Romans  in  the 
time  of  Augustus  and  Constantine  regarded  it  as  their  privilege 
to  be  buried. — C.  E.  M. 


302  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

Upon  the  greensward  in  the  churchyard  here 

The  dead  men  all  stand  upright  side  by  side. 
If  thou  the  sacred  mysteries,  &c.  &c. 

They  all  embrace  within  the  churchyard  here, 

These  mute  and  silent  brothers  who  have  died. 
If  thou  the  sacred  mysteries,  &c.  &c. 

'Tis  keeping  holiday,  the  churchyard  here, 

And  dancing  to  and  fro  the  dead  men  glide. 
If  thou  the  sacred  mysteries,  &c.  &c. 

Across  the  churchyard  now  the  moon  shines  clear ; 

Each  maiden  seeks  her  love,  each  lad  his  bride. 
If  thou  the  sacred  mysteries,  &c.  &c. 

No  more  they  find  them,  in  the  churchyard  here, 
Their  loves  of  yore,  that  would  not  be  denied. 
If  thou  the  sacred  mysteries,  &c.  &c. 

Oh  open  me  the  churchyard  wicket  wide  ! 
Let  my  love  in,  to  comfort  them  that  died  !  . . . 

(Trans.  Alma  Strettell.) 

Suddenly,  from  a  yawning  tomb  three  paces  from 
us,  we  heard  in  dolorous  sepulchral  tones  these 
words  : 

"  Let  sleep  in  peace  those  who  sleep  !  " 

We  remained  petrified,  and  all  around  us  in  the 
moonlight  a  deep  silence  reigned. 

At  last  Mathieu  said  softly  to  Grivolas  : 

"  Didst  thou  hear  ?  " 


REVELS   OF   TRINQUETAILLE     303 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  painter,  "it  is  down  there, 
in  that  sarcophagus." 

"  Eh,"  cried  Master  Gafet,  bursting  into 
laughter,  "  that  is  a  '  dressed  sleeper/  as  we  call 
them  in  Aries,  one  of  those  vagrants  who  come  to 
lodge  at  night  in  the  empty  tombs." 

"  What  a  pity,"  cried  Daudet,  "  that  it  was  not 
a  real  ghost  !  Some  beautiful  vestal,  who  at  the 
voice  of  the  poets  was  roused  from  her  sleep,  and, 
Oh,  my  Grivolas,  wished  to  rise  up  and  embrace 
thee  !  " 

Then  in  a  resounding  voice  he  sang,  and  we  all 
j  oined  in  : 

"  De  1'abbaye  passant  les  portes 
Autour  de  moi,  tu  trouverais 
Des  nonnes  1'errante  cohorte 
Car  en  suaire  je  serais  !  " 

"  O  Magali,  si  tu  te  fais 
La  pauvre  morte 
La  terre  alors  je  me  ferais 
L£  je  t'aurai !  " 

After  which  we  all  shook  hands  with  Master  Gafet 
and  made  our  way  quickly  to  the  railway  station, 
there  to  take  the  train  for  Avignon. 

Seven  years  later,  the  year,  alas !  of  the  great 
catastrophe,  I  received  this  letter  : 


304  MEMOIRS   OF   MISTRAL 

*'  PARIS,  December  31,  1870. 

"  MY  CHIEFTAIN, — I  send  thee,  by  the  balloon 
just  rising,  a  heap  of  kisses.  And  it  gives  me 
pleasure  to  be  able  to  send  them  in  the  language 
of  Provence,  for  so  I  am  assured  that  the  Bar- 
barians, should  this  balloon  fall  into  their  hands, 
cannot  read  a  word  of  my  writing,  nor  publish  my 
letter  in  their  Mercure  de  Souabe.  It  is  cold,  it 
is  dark  :  we  eat  horse,  cat,  camel,  and  hippo- 
potamus !  Ah,  for  the  good  onions,  the  catigot, 
and  fermented  cheese  of  the  tavern  of  Trinque- 
taille  ! 

'  The  guns  burn  our  fingers.  Wood  is  becoming 
scarce.  The  armies  of  the  Loire  come  not !  But 
that  does  not  matter — we  will  keep  the  cock- 
roaches from  Berlin  wearing  themselves  out  for 
some  time  yet  in  front  of  our  ramparts.  .  .  . 
And  then  if  Paris  is  lost,  I  know  of  some  good 
patriots  who  are  ready  to  take  Monsieur  de 
Bismarck  round  the  little  streets  of  our  poor 
capital.  Farewell,  my  chief — three  big  kisses,  one 
from  me,  one  from  my  wife,  and  the  other  from 
my  son.  With  that  a  happy  New  Year  as  always, 
until  this  day  next  year.  Thy  Felibre, 

"ALPHONSE  DAUDET." 

And  then  they  dare  to  say  that  Daudet  is  not  a 


REVELS   OF  TRINQUETAILLE     305 

good  Provengal !  Just  because  he  jokes  and 
ridicules  the  Tartarins,  the  Roumestans,  and 
Xante  Portals,  and  other  imbeciles  of  this  country, 
who  try  to  Frenchify  the  language  of  our  Provence. 
For  that  Tartarin  owes  him  a  grudge  ! 

No  !  The  mother  lioness  is  not  angry,  and  will 
never  be  angry,  with  the  young  lion  who,  in 
fighting,  sometimes  gives  her  a  scratch. 


PAUL  MARIETON,  CHANCELIER  DBS  FELIBRF.S. 


APPENDIX 

THE  following  extract,  translated  from  the 
biographical  notice  of  Frederic  Mistral,  written 
for  "  La  Grande  Encyclopedic"  by  Monsieur 
Paul  Marieton,  for  many  years  Chancelier  des 
Felibres  and  a  French  poet  and  writer  of  note, 
takes  up  the  history  of  Felibrige  where  the 
Memoirs  leave  off : 

The  unanimity  of  votes  accorded  to  Mireille  *  by 
the  members  of  the  French  Academy  set  the  seal 
of  sanction  to  the  Provencal  Renaissance,  and 
reinforced  Mistral  himself  with  faith  and  resolu- 
tion to  carry  out  his  mission.  Up  till  that  time 
he  had  said  truly,  as  in  the  opening  strophe  of 
Mireille,  that  he  "  sang  only  for  the  shepherds 
and  people  of  the  soil !  " — "  What  will  they  say 
at  Aries  ?  "  was  his  one  thought  as  he  wrote 
Mireille.  But  before  the  completion  of  his  epic 

*  Mireille  was  crowned  by  the  Academy,  and  the  poet 
received  a  prize  of  ten  thousand  francs. 


308  APPENDJI|X 

his  ambition  for  his  native  tongue  had  widened. 
The  notes  in  the  Appendix  and  the  French  transla- 
tion published  with  the  Provengal  testify  to  this 
fact.  Already  he  was  beginning  to  realise  the 
leading  part  he  was  about  to  play  in  the  society 
founded  at  Font-Segugne.  The  school  of  Rou- 
manille,  of  which,  in  virtue  of  Mireille,  Mistral 
was  now  chief,  added  to  its  members  daily. 

The  rules  of  the  language  were  now  fixed, 
the  language  of  the  Felibres,  and  thanks  to 
L'Armana  (an  annual  publication  initiated  and 
edited  by  Roumanille)  were  little  by  little  adopted 
by  the  people.  This  classic  vulgate — with  which 
Mistral,  by  pruning  and  enriching  his  native 
dialect,  had,  like  another  Dante,  dowered  his 
country — had  become  immortal,  having  given  birth 
to  a  masterpiece.  It  now  remained  to  give  a 
national  tendency  to  the  movement.  It  was  by 
raising  the  ambitions  of  a  race,  and  annexing  the 
sympathy  of  the  "  Felibres "  among  them,  by 
showing  them  their  ancestry  from  remotest  times, 
and  bringing  to  light  their  inalienable  rights,  that 
Mistral  evolved  out  of  a  literary  renaissance  a 
great  patriotic  cause. 

With  his  Ode  aux  Catalans  (1859)  and  his  Chant 
de  la  Coupe,  Mistral  sealed  the  alliance  between 
the  Proven£als  and  the  Catalans,  their  brethren 


APPENDIX  309 

both  of  race  and  tongue.  This  was  ratified 
when  in  1868  Mistral,  together  with  Roumieux, 
Paul  Meyer,  and  Bonaparte  Wyse,  met  at  the 
Barcelona  fete  in  response  to  the  call  of  the 
Catalonians. 

SONG  OF  THE  CUP.* 

Men  of  Provence,  this  Cup  has  come  to  us 
Pledge  of  our  Catalonian  brothers'  troth, 

Then  let  us  each  in  turn  drain  from  it  thus 
The  pure  wine  of  our  native  vineyard's  growth. 

O  sacred  cup 

Filled  brimming  up  ! 

Pour  out  to  overflowing 

Enthusiasms  glowing, 

The  energy  pour  out  that  doth  belong 

Of  right  unto  the  strong. 

Of  an  ancestral  people  proud  and  free 

Perchance  we  are  the  end,  we  faithful  few  : 

And  should  the  "  Felibres  "  fall,  it  well  may  be 
The  end  and  downfall  of  our  nation  too. 

O  sacred  cup,  &c. 

Yet,  in  a  race  that  germinates  again 

We  are  perchance  the  first-fruits  of  our  earth, 

We  are  perchance  the  pillars  that  maintain, 
The  knights  that  lead,  the  country  of  our  birth. 

O  sacred  cup,  &c. 

*  For  Provencal  text  see  p.  332, 


3io  APPENDIX 

Pour  out  for  us  the  golden  hopes  once  more, 
The  visions  that  our  youth  was  wont  to  see, 

And,  with  remembrance  of  the  days  of  yore, 
Faith  in  the  days  that  are  about  to  be. 
O  sacred  cup,  &c. 

Pour  for  us,  mingled  with  thy  generous  wine, 
Knowledge  of  Truth  and  Beauty,  both  in  one, 

And  lofty  joys  and  ravishments  divine 
That  laugh  at  Death  and  bid  its  fears  begone. 

O  sacred  cup,  &c. 

Pour  out  for  us  the  gift  of  poesy, 
That  all  things  living  we  may  fitly  sing  ; 

The  only  true  ambrosial  nectar  she 
That  changes  man,  to  god  transfiguring. 

O  sacred  cup,  &c. 

Ye  that  at  last  with  us  consenting  are, 
Now  for  the  glory  of  this  land  most  dear, 

O  Catalonian  brothers,  from  afar 

Unite  with  us  in  this  communion  here. 

0  sacred  cup,  &c. 

(Trans.  Alma  Strettell.) 

Thus  little  by  little  the  Felibrige,  first  started 
by  Roumanille  and  promoted  by  his  political 
pamphlets,  his  Christmas  Songs  and  Popular 
Tales,  was  developed  by  Mistral  into  a  national 
movement.  This  was  shown  clearly  in  his  second 
important  work,  Calandal,  a  poem  in  twelve 
cantos  (1867),  which  from  that  time  divided  the 
honours  with  Mireille, 


APPENDIX  311 

The  two  poems  were  in  striking  contrast  one 
to  the  other.  Mireille  depicted  the  Provence  of 
the  Crau  and  the  Camargue,  Calandal  the  Provence 
of  the  mountains  and  the  sea.  Mireille  was 
virgin  honey,  Calandal  the  lion's  mane.  In  the 
latter  poem,  Mistral  attempted  to  give  perhaps 
too  much  local  colour  to  please  the  general  public, 
in  spite  of  the  incomparable  style.  The  reception 
of  this  work  by  the  Felibres,  however,  was  enthu- 
siastic, the  heroic  symbolism  and  eloquence  of 
the  poet,  speaking  in  the  name  of  all  vindicators 
of  his  race,  gave  birth  to  a  set  of  mystic  patriots 
and  created  the  Felibreen  religion. 

Little  by  little,  thanks  to  the  vital  impulse 
given  by  Mistral,  Felibrige  crossed  the  Rhone. 
After  having  aroused  some  fervent  proselytes, 
such  as  Louis  Roumieux  and  Albert  Arnavielle 
at  Nimes  and  Alais,  it  resulted  at  Montpellier 
in  the  inauguration  of  the  "  Society  for  studying 
Ancient  Languages,"  under  the  auspices  of  Baron 
de  Tourtoulon.  The  work  of  this  group  scien- 
tifically justified  the  raising  and  purifying  of  the 
Oc  language.  Strengthened  by  the  support  of 
the  learned  and  lettered  officials,  up  to  that  period 
refractory,  the  Felibrige  movement,  already 
Proven£al  and  Catalan,  now  became  Latin  also. 

The   memorable    occasion    of    the    Centenary 


312  APPENDIX 

Fete  of  Petrarch  in  1874  at  Avignon,  presided  over 
by  Aubanel  and  initiated  by  Monsieur  de  Berluc- 
Perussis,  was  the  first  international  consecration 
of  the  new  literature  and  of  the  glory  of  Mistral. 

A  large  assembly  of  the  philological  Societe 
Romane  in  1875,  followed  by  the  Latin  Fetes  at 
Montpellier  in  1876,  at  which  the  young  wife  of  the 
poet  was  elected  Queen  of  the  Felibres,  definitely 
confirmed  the  importance  of  a  poetic  renaissance 
which  the  author  of  Mireille  and  Calandal  had 
developed  from  a  small  intimate  society  into  a 
wide  social  movement. 

Three  years  previously  (1875)  the  intellectual 
sovereignty  of  Mistral  had  impressed  itself  on  all 
the  south  of  France  by  the  publication  of  his 
collected  poems  "Lis  Isclo  d'Or"  ("The  Golden 
Isles")  which  revealed  the  serene  genius  of  the 
master,  his  extraordinary  versatility  and  his 
unquestionable  title  to  represent  his  race. 

Shortly  after,  at  Avignon,  the  poet  was  pro- 
claimed Grand  Master  (Capoulie)  of  the  literary 
federation  of  the  Meridional  provinces,  and  became 
the  uncontested  chief  of  a  crusade  of  the  Oc 
country  for  the  reconquest  of  its  historic  dignity 
and  position. 

The  sort  of  pontificate  with  which  Mistral  was 
from  henceforth  invested  in  no  way  arrested  the 


APPENDIX  313 

outflowing  of  his  songs.  A  new  poem,  Nerto, 
lighter  in  form  than  hitherto,  in  the  style  of  the 
romantic  epics  of  the  renaissance,  suddenly  drew 
the  attention  of  the  critics  again  to  the  poet  of 
Provence,  and  the  charm  and  infinite  variety  of 
his  genius. 

Having  already  compared  him  to  Homer,  to 
Theocritus,  and  to  Longus,  they  now  found  in  his 
work  the  illusive  seduction  of  Ariosto.  A  visit 
that  he  paid  to  Paris  in  1884,  after  an  absence  of 
twenty  years,  sealed  his  fame  in  France  and  his 
glory  in  Provence.  He  was  surrounded  by  an 
army  of  followers.  Paris,  which  knew  hitherto 
only  the  poet,  now  recognised  a  new  literature  in 
the  person  of  its  chief.  The  French  Academy 
crowned  Nerto  as  before  they  had  crowned  Mireille. 
Mistral  celebrated  there  in  the  French  capital  the 
fourth  centenary  of  the  union  of  Provence  and 
France  ;  "  as  a  joining  together  of  one  principality 
to  another  principality,"  according  to  the  terms 
of  the  ancient  historical  contract. 

He  returned  to  his  Provence  consecrated  chief 
of  a  people.  The  Proven£al  Renaissance  con- 
tinued to  extend  daily.  Mistral  endowed  the 
movement  at  last  with  the  scientific  and  popular 
weapon  essential  for  its  defence,  a  national  dic- 
tionary. It  was  the  crowning  work  of  his  life, 


314  APPENDIX 

"  The  Treasury  of  Felibrige."  All  the  various 
dialects  of  the  Oc  language  are  represented  in 
this  vast  collection  of  an  historic  tongue,  rich, 
melodious,  vital,  rescued  and  reinstated  by  its 
indefatigable  defenders  at  a  moment  when  all 
conspired  to  hasten  its  decrepitude. 

All  the  meanings  and  acceptations,  accompanied 
by  examples  culled  from  every  writer  in  the  Oc 
language,  every  idiom  and  proverb,  are  patiently 
collected  together  in  this  encyclopaedic  tresaurus 
which  could  never  be  replaced. 

The  Institute  awarded  him  a  prize  of  four 
hundred  francs. 

In  1890  Mistral  published  a  work  he  had  for 
some  time  contemplated,  La  RZino  Jano  (Queen 
Joan)  a  Provengal  tragedy.  In  spite  of  the  rare 
beauty  and  picturesque  eloquence  of  many  of 
the  cantos,  this  poem,  evoking  as  it  does  the 
Angevine  Provence  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
obtained  only  half  the  success  of  Nerto  from  the 
public.  The  French  do  not  share  with  the  Felibres 
the  cult  of  Queen  Joan. 

If  this  essentially  national  tragedy  was  judged 
in  Paris  a  merely  moderately  good  drama,  it  must 
be  remembered  that  the  Parisians  did  not  take  into 
account  the  familiar  popularity  which  Mistral  knew 
to  exist  for  his  heroine  among  his  own  people. 


APPENDIX  315 

While  awaiting  the  production  of  Queen  Joan 
at  the  Roman  Theatre  of  Orange,  restored  by  the 
Felibres,  Mistral  continued  the  active  side  of  his 
work. 

The  spreading  of  the  movement  on  all  sides 
called  for  more  influential  organs  than  either  the 
Almanac  or  the  annual  publication.  After 
having  contributed  for  forty  years  to  the  Armana 
and  having  presided  at  the  inauguration  of  the 
Felibreen  Review  in  1885,  he  became  principal 
editor  in  1890  of  a  Provencal  paper  in  Avignon, 
L'Aioli,  which  under  his  auspices  became  the 
quarterly  monitor  of  Felibrige. 

While  still  retaining  the  leadership  of  the  move- 
ment, Mistral  published  here  and  there  sundry 
chapters  of  his  Memoirs,  also  exhortations  to  his 
people,  lectures,  poems,  and  chronicles. 

In  1897  he  published  another  poem,  like  the 
former  seven  years  in  the  making,  Le  Poeme  du 
Rhone.  It  is  the  most  delicate  and  most  ingenu- 
ously epic  of  his  productions.  Above  all,  he 
showed  in  this  work  his  profound  symbolism, 
revealed  not  only  in  the  depth  and  breadth  of 
his  thought,  but  in  the  originality  of  his  versifica- 
tion. Taking  the  traditions  of  the  country,  he 
has  woven  them  into  the  winding  silk  cord  of  the 
living,  glistening,  eternal  Rhone,  this  poem  of 


3i6  APPENDIX 

the  river's  course.  He  has  inspired  his  people 
to  restore  the  honour  of  these  traditions  by  the 
radiant  example  and  fruitful  labour  of  his  own 
life. 

The  Memoirs  best  reveal  the  deep  roots  of  his 
patriotism.  In  describing  his  harmonious  exist- 
ence, the  master  relates  his  experience  both  as  a 
celebrated  writer  and  as  a  Provengal  farmer. 
Portraits  of  great  men  and  of  great  peasants 
stand  out  in  his  record.  One  can  judge  of  him 
as  a  prose  writer  by  the  Tales  and  Addresses 
appearing  here  and  there  during  a  period  of  forty 
years,  pages  which  often  equalled  in  beauty 
the  finest  songs  of  the  poet.  His  letters  also, 
which  sowed  unceasingly  the  good  grain  of  the 
Renaissance,  will,  when  published  one  day, 
show  even  better  than  the  translation  of  his 
verse  what  a  great  writer  the  French  have 
in  Mistral. 

His  life  after  all  has  been  his  finest  poem. 
In  order  to  bring  about  the  realisation  of  his  ideal, 
the  raising  of  his  country,  he  has  in  turn  shown 
himself  poet,  orator,  philologist,  and,  above  all, 
patriot.  The  "  new  life "  that  his  work  has 
infused  into  the  body  of  Felibrige  has  not  only 
regenerated  his  own  Provence  by  erecting  a  social 
ideal,  it  has  also  promoted  the  diffusion  of  a 


APPENDIX  317 

patriotic  sentiment  which  has  become  general 
throughout  France,  and  which  may  be  denned  as 
federalism  or  simply  decentralisation.  The  ideas 
of  Mistral  on  this  subject  of  local  centres  per- 
mitting the  free  expansion  of  individual  energies 
are  well  known.  It  can  only  be  accomplished, 
according  to  his  theory,  by  a  new  constituency,  the 
electors  of  the  existing  system  being  too  taken  up 
organising  the  redivision  of  the  departments  to 
enter  into  other  questions.  But  he  has  always 
refused  to  become  the  leader  of  a  political  move- 
ment. "  He  who  possesses  his  language  holds 
the  key  which  shall  free  him  from  his  chains," 
Mistral  has  always  said,  meaning  thereby  that  in 
the  language  dwells  the  soul  of  a  people.  Thus 
restricting  himself  to  the  leadership  of  a  linguistic 
movement  he  desired  to  remain  always  a  poet. 
It  is  the  purity  of  his  fame  which  has  given  such 
power  to  his  position.  By  the  charm  of  his  per- 
sonality he  won  large  crowds,  just  as  by  his 
writings  he  charmed  the  lettered  and  the  educated. 
For  he  was  always  possessed  by  a  profound  belief 
in  the  vitality  of  his  language  and  faith  in  a 
renewal  of  its  glory,  and  absolutely  opposed  in 
this  respect  to  Jasmin,  who  invariably  proclaimed 
himself  as  the  last  of  the  poets  of  the  Oc  tongue. 
If  Mistral  is  not  the  only  worker  in  the  Proven£al 


318  APPENDIX 

Renaissance,  it  is  at  all  events  owing  to  his  genius 
that  the  movement  took  wing  and  lived.  Before 
he  arose  the  ancient  and  illustrious  Oc  language 
was  in  the  same  deplorable  condition  as  were  the 
Arenas  of  Nimes  and  of  Aries  at  the  beginning 
of  the  century.  Degraded,  unsteady,  enveloped 
by  parasite  hovels,  their  pure  outline  was  being 
obliterated  by  the  disfiguring  leprosy.  One  day 
came  reform,  and,  taking  control,  swept  away  the 
hovels  and  rubbish,  restoring  to  their  bygone 
splendour  these  amphitheatres  of  the  old  Romans. 
Even  so,  barbarous  jargons  had  defaced  the 
idiom  of  Provence.  Then  with  his  following  of 
brilliant  and  ardent  patriots  Mistral  came  and 
dispersed  the  degenerating  patois,  restoring  to 
its  former  beauty  the  Greek  purity  of  form  belong- 
ing to  the  edifice  of  our  ancestors  and  fitting  it 
for  present  use.  PAUL  MARIETON. 

Every  year  in  May,  on  the  Feast  of  Saint e-Estelle, 
the  four  branches  of  Felibrige  are  convoked  to 
important  assizes  at  some  place  on  Provencal  soil. 
At  the  end  of  the  banquet  which  follows  the  floral 
sports,  and  after  the  address  of  the  chief,  the  latter 
raises  high  the  Grail  of  the  poetic  mysteries,  and 
intones  the  Song  of  the  Cup.  The  hymn  of  the 
faith  and  cause  of  the  race  is  taken  up  gravely 


MADAME  GASQUET  (NEE  MLLE.  GIRARD),  3RD  QUEEN  OF  THE  FKI.IBRES. 


APPENDIX  319 

and  the  refrain  joined  in  by  all  the  company. 
Then  the  cup  goes  round  fraternally  and  each 
member,  before  touching  it  with  his  lips,  in  turn 
rehearses  his  vow  of  fidelity. 

The  assizes  of  Sainte-Estelle  are  followed  by 
a  meeting  of  the  consistory,  who  elect  the  new 
members.  The  consistory  is  composed  of  a  chief 
or  capoulie,  of  a  chancellor,  and  fifty  senior 
members  chosen  from  among  the  four  branches. 
Every  branch,  Provence,  Languedoc,  Aquitaine, 
and  the  affiliated  branch  of  La  Catalogne,  is  pre- 
sided over  by  its  own  syndicate,  and  nominates 
an  assistant  to  the  capoulie.  Felibrige  numbers 
to-day  many  thousand  members,  without  counting 
the  foreign  associations  in  other  parts  of  France, 
such  as  the  Felibres  of  the  west,  inaugurated  by 
Renan  in  1884,  and  the  Cigales  of  Paris,  first 
started  by  the  Provenceaux  of  that  city,  as  Paul 
Ar£ne  declared : 

"Pour  ne  pas  perdre  1' accent,  nous  fondames 
laCigale.  .  .  ." 

The  classic  cicada  is  now  the  badge  of  the  Order 
and  is  worn  by  all  members  at  their  fetes. 

Every  seven  years  takes  place  a  great  meeting 
and  floral  feast,  on  which  occasion  three  first 
prizes  are  awarded  for  poetry,  prose,  and  Felibre"en 
work,  and  a  Queen  of  Felibrige  is  elected. 


320  APPENDIX 

Their  queen  presides  at  the  principal  assizes 
of  the  cause.  The  first  to  be  chosen  was  Madame 
Mistral,  the  young  wife  of  the  chief,  at  Montpellier 
in  1878.  The  second  was  Mademoiselle  Therese 
Roumanille  (Madame  Boissiere),  daughter  of  the 
poet.  The  third  was  Madame  Gasquet,  nee 
Mademoiselle  Girard ;  and  the  fourth  and  present 
queen  is  Madame  Bischoffsheim,  nee  Mademoiselle 
de  Chevigne.  A  procession  of  Felibr  esses  form  an 
escort  to  the  reigning  queen. 

The  Proven9al  Renaissance  has  counted  many 
distinguished  women  writers  and  poets  among  its 
members.  Among  the  first  of  these  trouver esses 
were  Madame  Roumanille,  wife  of  the  poet, 
whose  work  was  crowned  at  the  Fete  of  Apt  in 
1863 ;  Madame  d'Arband  (1863) ;  Mademoiselle 
Riviere,  whose  "  Belugo "  was  sung  by  all  our 
leaders  (1868) ;  Madame  Lazarin  Daniel,  Felibresse 
of  the  Crau ;  Madame  Gautier-Bremond  of  Tar- 
ascon,  celebrated  for  her  "  Velo-blanco "  (1887) ; 
not  to  mention  the  many  whose  names  in  recent 
years  have  been  an  honour  to  the  cause. 

It  was  on  the  occasion  of  the  F£te  at  Mont- 
pellier, May  25,  1878,  that  the  "Hymne  a  la 
Race  Latine"  was  recited  on  the  Place  du 
Peyron,  that  song  which  has  since  become  a 
national  possession  and  pride. 


APPENDIX  321 


TO  THE  LATIN  RACE.* 

Arise,  arise  renewed,  O  Latin  race, 

Beneath  the  great  cope  of  thy  golden  sun 

The  russet  grape  is  bubbling  in  the  press, 
And  gushing  forth  the  wine  of  God  shall  run  . 


With  hair  all  loosened  to  the  sacred  breeze 

From  Tabor's  Mount — thou  art  the  race  of  light, 
That  lives  of  joy,  and  round  about  whose  knees 

Enthusiasm  springs,  and  pure  delight ; 
The  Apostolic  race,  that  through  the  land 

Sets  all  the  bells  a-ringing  once  again  ; 
Thou  art  the  trumpet  that  proclaims — the  hand 

That  scatters  far  and  wide  the  bounteous  grain. 

Arise,  arise  renewed,  O  Latin  race,  &c. 


Thy  mother-tongue,  that  mighty  stream  that  flows 

Afar  through  seven  branches,  never  dies  ; 
But  light  and  love  outpouring,  onward  goes, 

An  echo  that  resounds  from  Paradise. 
O  Roman  daughter  of  the  People-King, 

Thy  golden  language,  it  is  still  the  song 
That  human  lips  unceasingly  shah1  sing — 

While  words  yet  have  a  meaning — ages  long. 

Arise,  arise  renewed,  &c. 

*  For  Provencal  text  see  p.  334. 

x 


322  APPENDIX 

Thy  blood  illustrious  on  every  side 

Hath  been  outpoured  for  justice  and  for  right ; 
Thy  mariners  across  the  distant  tide 

Have  sailed  to  bring  an  unknown  world  to  light. 
A  hundred  times  the  pulsing  of  thy  thought 

Hath  shattered  and  brought  low  thy  kings  of  yore  ; 
Ah  !  but  for  thy  divisions,  who  had  sought 

Ever  to  rule  thee,  or  to  frame  thy  law  1 


Arise,  arise  renewed,  &c. 

Kindling  thy  torch  at  radiances  divine 

From  the  high  stars,  'tis  thou  hast  given  birth, 
In  shapes  of  marble  and  in  pictured  line, 

To  Beauty's  self,  incarnate  upon  earth. 
The  native  country  thou  of  god-like  Art, 

All  graces  and  all  sweetness  come  from  thee, 
Thou  art  the  source  of  joy  for  every  heart, 

Yea,  thou  art  youth,  and  ever  more  shalt  be. 

Arise,  arise  renewed,  &c. 

With  thy  fair  women's  pure  and  noble  forms 

The  world's  pantheons  everywhere  are  stored  ; 
And  at  thy  triumphs,  yea,  thy  tears,  thy  storms, 

Men's  hearts  must  palpitate  with  one  accord  ; 
The  earth's  in  blossom  when  thy  meadows  bloom, 

And  o'er  thy  follies  every  one  goes  mad  ; 
But  when  thy  glory  is  eclipsed  in  gloom 

The  whole  world  puts  on  mourning  and  is  sad. 

Arise,  arise  renewed,  &c. 


APPENDIX  323 

Thy  limpid  sea,  that  sea  serene,  where  fleet 

The  whitening  sails  innumerable  ply, 
That  crisps  the  soft,  wet  sand  about  thy  feet, 

And  mirrors  back  the  azure  of  the  sky, 
That  ever-smiling  sea,  God  poured  its  flood 

From  out  His  splendour  with  a  lavish  hand, 
To  bind  the  brown-hued  peoples  of  thy  blood 

With  one  unbroken,  scintillating  band. 

Arise,  arise  renewed,  &c. 

Upon  thy  sun-kissed  slopes,  on  every  side 

The  olive  grows,  the  tree  of  peace  divine, 
And  all  thy  lands  are  crowned  with  the  pride 

Of  thy  prolific,  broadly-spreading  vine. 
O  Latin  race,  in  faithful  memory 

Of  that  thy  glorious,  ever-shining  past, 
Arise  in  hope  toward  thy  destiny, 

One  brotherhood  beneath  the  Cross  at  last ! 

Arise,  arise  renewed,  O  Latin  race, 

Beneath  the  great  cope  of  thy  golden  sun  ! 

The  russet  grape  is  bubbling  in  the  press, 

And  gushing  forth  the  wine  of  God  shall  run ! 

(Trans.  Alma  Strettell.) 

To  conclude  with  the  words  of  Mistral  quoted 
from  one  of  his  addresses  : 

"  If  thou  wouldst  that  the  blood  of  thy  race 
maintain  its  virtue,  hold  fast  to  thy  historic 
tongue.  ...  In  language  there  lies  a  mystery, 
a  precious  treasure.  .  .  .  Every  year  the  nightin- 
gale renews  his  feathers,  but  he  changes  not  his 
note."  C.  E.  MAUD. 


MISTRAL'S  POEMS  IN  THE  PROVENCAL 

GREVANCO 
ii 

(From  "  Lis  ISCLO  D'OR.") 

Oh  !  vers  li  piano  de  tousello 
Leissas  me  perdre  pensatieu, 
Dins  li  grand  blad  plen  de  rousello 
Ounte  drouloun  ieu  me  perdiue  ! 

Quaucun  me  bousco 

De  tousco  en  tousco 
En  recitant  soun  angelus  ; 

E,  cantarello, 

Li  calandrello 
Ieu  vau  seguent  dins  lou  trelus  .  . 

Ah  !  pauro  maire, 
Beu  cor  amaire, 
Cridant  moun  noum  t'ausirai  plus  ! 


LES  SAINTES-M ARIES  (Mireille). 

Nautre,  li  sorre  erne  li  fraire 
Que  lou  seguian  per  tout  terraire, 
Sus  uno  ratamalo,  i  furour  de  la  mar, 
E  senso  velo  e  senso  remo, 


POEMS  IN  THE  PROVENCAL        325 

Fuguerian  embandi. .  Li  femo 

Toumbavian  un  rie"u  de  lagremo  ; 

Lis  ome  vers  lou  ceu  pourtavon  soun  regard. 

Uno  ventado  tempestouso 

Sus  la  marine  s6uvertouso 

Couchavo  lou  bat6u :  Marciau  e  Savournin 

Soun  ageinouia  sus  la  poupo  ; 

Apensamenti,  dins  sa  roupo 

Lou  viei  Trefume  s'agouloupo  ; 

Contro  6u  ero  asseta  1'evesque  Massemin. 

Dre  sus  lou  te"ume,  aqueu  Lazari 

Que  de  la  toumbo  e  dou  susari 

Avie'ncaro  garda  la  mourtalo  palour, 

Semblo  afrounta  lou  gourg  que  reno  : 

Em'eu  la  nau  perdudo  enmeno 

Marto  sa  sorre,  e  Madaleno, 

Couchado  en  un  cantoun,  que  plouro  sa  doulour. 

Contro  uno  ribo  sSnso  roco, 

Alleluia  !  la  barco  toco  ; 

Sus  1'areno  eigalouso  aqui  nous  amourran 

E  cridan  touti :  Nosti  testo 

Qu'as  poutira  de  la  tempesto, 

Fin-qu'au  couteu  li  vaqui  lesto 

A  prouclama  ta  lei,  o  Crist !  Te  lou  juran  ! 

A-n-aqueu  noum,  de  joui'ssen?o, 

La  noblo  terro  de  Prouvengo 

Pareis  estrementido  ;  a-n-aqueu  crid  nouv&i, 

E  lou  bouscas  e  lou  campe"stre 

An  trefouli  dins  tout  soun  estre, 

Coume  un  chin  qu'en  sentent  soun  mfetre 

16  cour  a  1'endavans  e  ie"  fai  lou  beu-beu. 


326         POEMS  IN  THE  PROVENCAL 

La  mar  avie*  jita  d'arceli  .  .  . 

Pater  noster,  qui  es  in  coeli, — 

A  nosto  longo  fam  mandates  un  renos  ; 

A  nosto  set,  dins  lis  engano 

Fagueres  naisse  uno  fountano  ; 

E  miraclouso,  e  Undo,  e  sano, 

Gisclo  enca  dins  la  gleiso  ounte  soun  nostis  os 


MAGALI. 

O  Magali,  ma  tant  amado, 
Mete  la  testo  au  fenestroun  ! 
Escouto  un  pau  aquesto  aubado 
De  tambourin  e  de  viouloun. 

Es  plen  d'estello.  aperamount ! 

L'auro  es  toumDado, 
Mai  lis  estello  paliran, 

Quand  te  veiran  ! 

— Pas  mai  que  dou  murmur  di  broundo 
De  toun  aubado  i6u  fau  cas  ! 
Mai  i6u  m'envau  dins  la  mar  bloundo 
Me  faire  anguielo  de  roucas. 

— O  Magali !  se  tu  te  fas 

Lou  peis  de  1'oundo, 
Ie"u,  lou  pescaire  me  farai, 

Te  pescarai ! 

— Oh  !  mai,  se  tu  te  fas  pescaire, 
Ti  vertoulet  quand  jitaras, 
Ie"u  me  farai  1'auceu  voulaire, 
M'envoularai  dins  li  campas. 


MADAME  BISCHOFKSHEIM  (NEE  MLLE.  DE  CHEVIGNK), 
4TH  AND  PRESENT  QUEEN  OF  THE  FEI.IBRES. 


POEMS  IN  THE  PROVENCAL        327 

— O  Magali,  se  tu  te  fas 

L'auceu  de  1'aire, 
Ieu  lou  cassaire  me  farai, 

Te  cassarai. 

— I  perdigau,  i  bouscarido, 
Se  venes,  tu,  cala  ti  las, 
leu  me  farai  1'erbo  flourido 
E  m'escoundrai  dins  li  pradas. 

— O  Magah,  se  tu  te  fas 

La  margarido, 
leu  1'aigo  lindo  me  farai, 

T'arrousarai. 


—  Se  tu  te  fas  1'eigueto  lindo, 
I6u  me  farai  lou  nivoulas, 

E  16u  m'enanarai  ansindo 
A  I'Americo,  perabas  ! 

—  O  Magali,  se  tu  t'envas 

Alin  is  Indo, 

L'auro  de  mar  ieu  me  farai, 
Te  pourtarai ! 

—  Se  tu  te  fas  la  marinade, 

fugirai  d'un  autre  las  : 
me  farai  1'escandihado 
Dou  grand  souleu  que  found  lou  glas  ! 

—  O  Magali,  se  tu  te  fas 

La  souleiado, 

Lou  verd  limbert  ieu  me  farai, 
E  te  beurai ! 


328         POEMS  IN  THE  PROVENCAL 

—  Se  tu  te  r£ndes  1'alabreno 
Que  se  rescound  dins  lou  bartas, 
I6u  me  rendrai  la  luno  pleno 
Que  dins  la  niue  fai  lume  i  masc  ! 

—  O  Magali,  se  tu  fas 

Luno  sereno, 
Ie"u  bello  neblo  me  farai, 
T'acatarai. 

—  Mai  se  la  neblo  m'enmantello, 
Tu,  per  ac6,  noun  me  tendras  ; 
I6u,  bello  roso  vierginello, 
M'espandirai  dins  1'espinas  ! 

—  0  Magali,  se  tu  te  fas 

La  roso  bello, 

Lou  parpaioun  i6u  me  farai, 
Te  beisarai. 

—  Vai,  calignaire,  courre,  courre  ! 
Jamai,  jamai  m'agantaras: 

I6u,  de  la  rusco  d'un  grand  route 
Me  vestirai  dins  lou  bouscas. 

—  O  Magali,  se  tu  te  fas 

L'aubre  di  mourre, 
I6u  lou  clot  d'eurre  me  farai, 
T'embrassarai ! 

-  -  Se  me  vos  prene  a  la  brasseto, 
R£n  qu'un  viei  chaine  arraparas  .  .  . 
leu  me  farai  bianco  moungeto 
D6u  mounasti6  dou  grand  Sant  Bias  ! 


POEMS  IN  THE  PROVENCAL     329 

—  O  Magali,  se  tu  te  fas 

Mounjo  blanqueto, 
I6u,  capelan,  counfessarai, 
E  t'ausirai ! 

—  Se  dou  couv£nt  passes  li  porto, 
Touti  li  mounjo  trouvaras 

Qu'a  moun  entour  saran  per  orto, 
Car  en  susari  me  veiras  ! 

—  O  Magali,  se  tu  te  fas 

La  pauro  morto, 
Adounc  la  terro  me  farai, 
Aqui  t'aurai ! 

—  Aro  coumence  enfin  de  cr&re 
Que  noun  me  paries  en  risent. 
Vaqui  moun  aneloun  de  veire 
Per  souvenen?o,  o  beu  jouvdnt ! 

—  O  Magali,  me  fas  de  b£n  ! , , , 

Mai,  tre  te  v£ire, 
Ve  lis  estello,  o  Magali, 
Coume  an  pali ! 


SOULOMI. 

SUS  LA  MORT  DE  LAMARTINE. 

Quand  1'ouro  d6u  tremount  es  vengudo  p£r  1'astre, 

Sus  li  mourre  envahi  per  lou  vespre,  li  pastre 

Alargon  sis  anouge  e  si  fedo  e  si  can  ; 

E  dins  li  baisso  palunenco 

Lou  grouiin  rangoulejo  en  bramadisso  unenco  : 

"  Aqu6u  souleu  ero  ensucant !  " 


330        POEMS  IN  THE  PROVENCAL 

Di  paraulo  de  Dieu  magnanime  escampaire, 
Ansin,  o  Lamartine,  o  moun  mdstre,  o  moun  paire, 
En  cantico,  en  acioun,  en  lagremo,  en  soulas, 
Quand  aguerias  a  noste  mounde 
Escampa  de  lumiero  e  d' amour  soun  abounde, 
E  que  lou  mounde  fugue"  las, 

Cadun  jite  soun  bram  dins  la  neblo  prefoundo, 
Cadun  vous  bandigue  la  peiro  de  sa  foundo, 
Car  vosto  resplendour  nous  fasi6  mau  is  iue, 
Car  uno  estello  que  s'amosso, 
Car  un  dieu  clavela,  toujour  agrado  en  fo^o, 
E  li  grapaud  amon  la  niue  .  .  . 

E'm'ac6,  Ton  vegue  de  causo  espetaclouso  ! 
Eu,  aquelo  grand  font  de  pouesio  blouso 
Qu'avie  rejouveni  Tamo  de  1'univers, 
Li  jouini  poueto  rigueron 
De  sa  malancounie  proufetico,  e  disueTon 
Que  sabie  pas  €aire  li  vers. 

De  1'Autisme  Adounai  6u  sublime  grand-preire 
Que  dins  sis  inne  sant  enaur£  nosti  creire 
Sus  li  courdello  d'or  de  1'arpo  de  Sioun, 
En  atestant  lis  Escrituro 
Li  devot  Farisen  crideron  sus  1'auturo 
Que  n'avie  gens  de  religioun. 

Eu,  lou  grand  pietadous,  que,  sus  la  catastrofo 

De  n6stis  ancian  rei,  avie  tra  sis  estrofo 

E  qu'en  mabre  poumpous  i'avi6  fa'n  mausouleu, 

D6u  Reialisme  li  badaire 

Trouveron  a  la  fin  qu'ero  un  descaladaire, 

E  touti  s'aliunchdron  leu. 


POEMS  IN  THE  PROVENCAL        331 

Eu,  lou  grand  ouratour,  la  voues  apoustoulico, 

Que  fague  dardaia  lou  mot  de  Republico 

Sus  lou  front,  dins  lou  ceu  di  pople  tresanant, 

P£r  uno  estranjo  fernesio 

Touti  li  chin  gasta  de  la  Demoucracio 

Lou  mourdegueron  en  renant. 


Eu,  lou  grand  ci6utadin  que  dins  la  goulo  en  flamo 
Avi6  jita  soun  vieure  e  soun  cors  e  soun  amo, 
Per  sauva  dou  voulcan  la  patrio  en  coumbour, 
Quand  demande  soun  pan,  pechaire  ! 
Li  bourges  e  li  gros  1'apeleron  manjaire, 
E  s'estremeron  dins  soun  bourg. 

Adounc,  en  se  vesent  soulet  dins  soun  auvari, 
Doulent,  em6  sa  crous  escale  soun  Calvari  .  .  . 
E  quauqui  b6nis  amo,  ei^a  vers  1'embruni. 
Entendegueron  un  long  geme, 
E  piei,  dins  lis  espaci,  aqueste  crid  supreme  : 
Heli !  lamma  sabacthani ! 

Mai  degun  s'avastd  vers  la  cimo  deserto  .  .  . 
Em6  li  dous  iue  clin  e  li  dos  man  duberto, 
Dins  un  silenci  gr§u  alor  eu  s'amagud  ; 
E,  siau  coume  soun  li  mountagno, 
Au  mitan  de  sa  g!6ri  e  de  sa  malamagno, 
S£nso  ren  dire  mourigue'. 


332         POEMS  IN  THE  PROVENQAL 


LA  COUPO 

Prouvengau,  veici  la  coupo 
Que  nous  ven  di  Catalan  : 

A-de-r£ng  beguen  en  troupo 
Lou  vin  pur  de  noste  plant ! 

Coupo  santo 
E  versanto, 
Vuejo  a  plen  bord, 
Vuejo  abord 
Lis  estrambord 
E  1'eriavans  di  fort ! 

D'un  viei  pople  fier  e  libre 
Sian  bessai  la  finicioun  ; 

E,  se  toumbon  li  Felibre, 
Toumbara  nosto  nacioun. 

Coupo  santo,  &c. 

D'uno  ra?o  que  regreio 
Sian  bessai  li  proumie"  gre"u  ; 

Sian  bessai  de  la  patrio 
Li  cepoun  emai  li  prie'u. 

Coupo  santo,  &c. 

Vuejo-nous  lis  esperan£O 
E  li  raive  d6u  jouv£nt, 

Dou  passat  la  remembrango 
E  la  fe  dins  1'an  que  ven. 

Coupo  santo,  &c. 


POEMS  IN  THE  PROVENCAL        333 

Vue jo-nous  la  couneiss6n?o 

D6u  Verai  emai  d6u  Beu, 
E  lis  auti  jou'issenso 

Que  se  trufon  dou  toumbeu. 

Coupo  santo,  &c. 


Vue  jo-nous  la  Pouesio 
P£r  canta  tout  90  que  vieu, 

Car  es  elo  1'ambrousio 
Que  tremudo  1'ome  en  di&i. 

Coupo  santo,  &c. 

Per  la  glori  dou  terraire 

Vautre  enfin  que  sias  couns£nt, 
Catalan,  de  liuen,  o  fraire, 

Coumunien  toutis  ensen ! 


Coupo  santo 
E  versanto, 
Vuejo  a  plen  bord, 
Vue  jo  abord 
Lis  estrambord 
E  1'enavans  di  fort 


334       POEMS  IN  THE  PROVENCAL 


A  LA  RACO  LATINO. 

i 

(PECO  DICHO  A  MOUNT-PELIE  sus  LA  PLACO  D6u  PEIROU, 
LOU  25  DE  MAI  DE  1878.) 

Aubouro-te,  raco  latino, 
Souto  la  capo  dou  souleu  ! 
Lou  rasin  brun  boui  dins  la  tino, 
Lou  vin  de  Dieu  gisclara  leu. 


Erne  toun  p£u  que  se  desnouso 
A  1'auro  santo  dou  Tabor, 
Tu  sies  la  rago  lumenouso 
Que  vieu  de  joio  e  d'estrambord  ; 
Tu  sies  la  rago  apoustoulico 
Que  sono  li  campano  a  brand : 
Tu  sies  la  troumpo  que  publico 
E  sies  la  man  que  trais  lou  gran. 

Aubouro-te,  rago  latino,  &c. 

Ta  lengo  maire,  aqueu  grand  flume 
Que  per  se"t  branco  s'espandis, 
Largant  1' amour,  largant  lou  lume 
Coume  un  resson  de  Paradis, 
Ta  lengo  d'or,  fiho  roumano 
Dou  Pople-Rei,  es  la  cansoun 
Que  rediran  li  bouco  umano, 
Tant  que  lou  Verbe  aura  resoun. 

Aubouro-te,  ra9O  latino,  &c. 


POEMS  IN  THE  PROVENCAL        335 

Toun  sang  ilustre,  de  tout  caire, 
Per  la  justice  a  fa  rajou  ; 
Pereilalin  ti  navegaire 
Soun  ana  querre  un  mounde  n6u  ; 
Au  batedis  de  ta  pensado 
As  esclapa  c£nt  cop  ti  rdi . . . 
Ah  !  se  noun  £res  divisado 
Quau  poudrie  vuei  te  faire  lei  ? 

Aubouro-te,  raQo  latino,  &c. 


A  la  belugo  dis  estello 
Abrant  lou  mou  de  toun  flambeu, 
Dintre  lou  mabre  e  sus  la  telo 
As  encarna  lou  subre-beu. 
De  1'art  divin  si6s  la  patrio 
E  touto  graci  ven  de  tu  ; 
Sies  lou  sourgent  de  1'alegrio 
E  si6s  1'eterno  jouventu  ! 

Aubouro-te,  ra9o  latino,  &c. 


Di  formo  puro  de  ti  femo 
Li  panteon  se  soun  poupla ; 
A  ti  triounfle,  a  ti  lagremo 
Touti  li  cor  an  barbela  ; 
Flouris  la  terro,  quand  fas  fl&ri ; 
De  ti  foulie  cadun  ven  f6u  ; 
E  dins  1'esclussi  de  ta  gl6ri 
Sempre  lou  mounde  a  pourta  d6u. 

Aubouro-te,  ra9O  latino,  &c. 


336         POEMS  IN  THE  PROVENCAL 

Ta  Undo  mar,  la  mar  sereno 
Ounte  blanquejon  li  veisseu, 
Friso  a  ti  ped  sa  molo  areno 
En  miraiant  1'azur  dou  ceu. 
Aquelo  mar  toujour  risSnto, 
Di6u  1'escampe  de  soun  clarun 
Coume  la  cencho  trelusento 
Que  d£u  liga  ti  pople  brun. 

Aubouro-te,  rac.o  latino,  &c. 

Sus  ti  coustiero  souleiouso 
Creis  1'oulivi^,  1'aubre  de  pas, 
E  de  la  vigno  vertuiouso 
S'enourgulisson  ti  campas  : 
Ra£o  latino,  en  remembrango 
De  toun  destin  sempre  courous, 
Aubouro-te  vers  I'esperan^o, 
Afrairo-te  souto  la  Crous  ! 

Aubouro-te,  rago  latino, 
Souto  la  capo  dou  souleu  ! 
Lou  rasin  brun  boui  dins  la  tino, 
Lou  vin  de  Dieu  gisclara  leu  ! 


Printed  by  BALLANTYNE  &•  Co   LIMITED 
Tavistock  Street,  London 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


21995 


."£  SOWERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


